How a Fisherman and a Coconut Saved the Day

By Ahmed Aznil
6 min read · Published on 7/22/2007

 

This day is burned into my memory.

The day before, we were cruising down to the Central Atolls with a crew of German surfers from Munich. The same guys who started river surfing back home. The channels were calm, and we reached Muli around 4:30 PM after an eight and a half hour cruise. Tired as we were, we still paddled out for a quick surf. Just us out there. Not a soul in sight. Two to four foot fun waves, all to ourselves. We ended the day smiling.

The next morning, I woke up to the sound of crew walking on the deck. My room, probably the best spot a surf guide could ever sleep, was at the back of the boat, main deck. Lying on the bed, I could look right out at the ocean with the doors open. No AC, just a small wall fan and fresh wind sweeping under the door. Perfect.

We pulled anchor at dawn and set off for another session in the wildness of the Maldives. That’s exactly how it felt back then. Wild. Untouched.

We surfed long that morning. After breakfast, some rest. Then a quick pre-lunch paddle before the outgoing currents got strong. By early afternoon, we were back on the boat, scattered. Some reading. Some napping. Just soaking it in.

Around 2 PM, I noticed a small fishing dhoni approaching. Two older Maldivian men, probably in their late fifties, dropped anchor about 150 meters outside the break. I checked the currents for another session and let the crew know we’d head out again later when the ocean sweep calmed down. Everyone was chill. I went back to my room, lay down, and must have dozed off to the soft rocking of the boat.

Suddenly, I woke to the sound of an engine. I looked out. The crew had gone for a session without me. I thought to myself, how long was I out? I stepped outside and headed to the captain’s room. That’s when I saw it.

The sky had turned dark grey. A storm was right above us.

The guys were still in the water. They had no idea what was coming. I rushed down the steps yelling for the tender driver, but he couldn’t hear me. Finally, as he came closer, I waved him down. I heard the captain shouting too. He told us to get them out of the water.

I jumped on the dinghy and told the driver to floor it. The wind picked up fast. I was screaming for the guests to get out of the water. Some started swimming toward shore, but I kept yelling for them to come to the boat. By the time we got them all onboard the tiny dinghy, it was too late.

The storm hit. Forty mile per hour winds. Heavy rain. We couldn’t see a thing. No island. No mother boat. Just floating. Everyone was scared. You could see it in their faces. And I had to think.

That’s when I remembered the fishing dhoni.

I started plotting in my head. Where would it be right now? I told the driver to turn around. Everyone was shivering, asking what I was doing, but I kept pointing and giving directions. Then through the howl I heard it. An old diesel engine.

Five meters out, the dhoni appeared like a ghost in the grey.

I shouted to the old man on deck. Told him we needed to get onboard. He nodded without hesitation.

We couldn’t get close, so I told the guests to jump in and swim for it. One by one, we made it. All of us now crammed onto this tiny fishing vessel. The old man gestured toward the shack at the front of the boat. Eight freezing Germans and one Maldivian guide packed into that small space.

Then the man brought us coconut. Handed out slices of the kernel. Within five minutes, the shivering stopped. He smiled and said, it’s the best remedy for cold.

Fifteen minutes later, the storm cleared. We thanked the two men, untied our dinghy, and made our way back to the main boat.

On the ride back, I kept thinking.

How important it is to really know where you are.
To stay aware.
To read the signs, not just the swell.

That day, it wasn’t just instinct or experience that saved us.
It was memory. Presence. And maybe a bit of humility.

We didn’t find shelter by luck.
We found it because I remembered something small. A boat in the distance, barely worth noticing at the time.

And when the ocean turned grey, that small thing became everything.

But the thing I remember most?
That old man with a calm smile and a plate of coconut.
No panic. No speeches. Just kindness.

Eight shivering surfers and a surf guide found warmth in a shack and strength in a stranger.
And that might’ve been the most important surf lesson I’ve ever had.