Freefall at Vilivaru Giri

Hassan closed his eyes and described the feeling of diving deep.

“After 20 meters, you fall very fast. Really fast.”

Fall? Fast?

That single line unraveled everything I thought I understood about breath-hold diving. It was also the first step on my own path toward being a professional freediver.

I ended up on in the Maldives by accident. A cheap ticket from Sri Lanka, a little scheduling magic, and suddenly we were stepping off a speedboat onto a tiny island in of Maafushi—four blocks wide, one kilometer end to end, floating in an endless blue horizon.

At the time, local islands had only recently opened to tourism. Maafushi was one of the first, and the community was still figuring out how to comfortably host outsiders. A fenced section of beach accommodated Western swimwear, and a shiny yacht moored just offshore handled the alcohol — both kept at a respectful distance from island residents. Vespa scooters buzzed through sandy streets, and we quickly met Ibrahim and Hassan—two local guides who showed us around both their island and, more importantly, their ocean.

The scuba diving was spectacular—reefs as rich as anything I’d seen growing up in Papua New Guinea. But it was on a snorkeling trip to a submerged reef called Vilivaru Giri where things shifted. The circular reef sat just below the surface before dropping off at the edge into deep blue. I spent the entire time diving down over and over again, chasing turtles and fish, completely absorbed.

At one point, Hassan swam over gently pointed out that I was keeping my snorkel in my mouth during my dives. He explained—simply, calmly—that if I happened to black out, the snorkel would keep my airway open.

It was such a small correction, but it carried weight. It wasn’t criticism—it was an invitation into a different way of diving. A safer, more intentional way.

And once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it.

Hassan moved through the water completely differently than I did. Everything was slow, deliberate. He didn’t chase marine life—he positioned himself ahead of it, letting the encounter happen naturally. He wasn’t pushing to the edge of discomfort and rushing back to the surface. He was relaxed, controlled, unhurried. Meanwhile, I was bouncing up and down, burning through dives.

When I finally asked how he was able to dive like that, he told me that he and his brother had been saving money from snorkel tours to travel to the Philippines and compete in freediving competitions.

Competitions?

That idea hit just as hard as his description of free-fall. I had seen The Big Blue, but I thought it was just a film. I didn’t realize there were real people, real systems, real depth to this world.

Hassan described it again:

“If I want to relax, I just close my eyes and dream about the free fall. After twenty meters, you fall very fast. It’s like falling from the sky. Same thing in the water.”

In that moment, something clicked. What had been a private obsession—something I’d been doing instinctively since I was a kid—suddenly had a path forward.

It would take me another six years to find my way into a formal freediving course, and a few more before I experienced my own first free-fall. That strange, weightless descent—the feeling described in The Big Blue as “slipping without falling.”

I’m still not at the level Hassan described.

But the moment I heard him describe it, I knew I was in.