Let’s move to the Maldives, Mom! These Indian Ocean resorts are favorites of couples in love, but there are activities for all ages on the family holiday of a lifetime

The eyes are small, dark and disturbingly empty. Even more disturbing, there are at least eight pairs, attached to 10-foot torpedo bodies, flashing past my Boden swimming costume in a catalog shot that would make women pale.

Half the number of circling fins would make an ashen-faced Roy Scheider in Jaws realize the need for a bigger boat.

And yet here I am, in the Indian Ocean, swimming with a shiver of sharks. So much for my husband’s claim that apart from hanging out all day in flowy dresses, there would be nothing to do in the Maldives.

Think of this archipelago and certain prejudices come to mind. But beyond the honeymoon toast and celebrity braggadocio, I’m finding it can be action-packed and perfect for families. We split our stay between two island resorts in an effort to maximize this unique experience, because trust me, it’s not cheap.

From the moment we land at the Anantara Dhigu resort jetty and the low beat of a boduberu drum announces our arrival as if we were kings, it’s clear that this bikini atoll is buzzing with life.

“Welcome to Dhigu,” smiles Lamya, head of our welcome committee, and hands us coconut water for the shortest buggy ride to our new home. A compact resort consisting of 110 beach villas and overwater suites. You can walk from one end of the island to the other in ten minutes, but the surroundings leave me enchanted. Palm trees stand guard over the softest white sand. The sea is a collage of blinding blues. In the distance, white tablecloths flutter in the evening breeze as diners walk barefoot to the fanciest barbecue ever held on a beach. It makes me want to get started. Others are too.

‘Can we go fishing?’ asks Felix, 11, eager to catch his first whopper.

‘Can we go surfing?’ asks Evie, 16, eager to catch her first wave.

“Can we watch Crazy Rich Asians?” asks Rose, 17, eager to watch her favorite movie on the six-foot-tall screen set up further down the sand.

Yes, yes and yes, my children. But first things first. Take off your clothes, put on your stockings and I’ll race you into the sea. Few pleasures surpass immersing winter bodies in warm equatorial waters and as we swim to Instagram Hammock – a beautiful affair of driftwood and rope rising from the shallows – all thoughts of cold Britain melt away.

Back to our neighboring beach villas – stylish low-rise buildings that hug the coast and exude understated luxury – and a homecoming with Homeric intentions. Beds are a vision of coconut calligraphy, palms spelled out to wish us a wonderful stay. There is a free bottle of bubbly on ice. The open-air bath is filled with rose petals.

“I feel like a goddess,” Felix sighs, putting on a lush terrycloth dressing gown. We laugh, but I know exactly what he means.

The burning question as we sit by the water for a dinner of freshly caught grouper with delicious Maldivian chili sauce is which excursion we will do first. We choose to strap on a snorkel and dare to stare a nurse shark in the eye.

The marine biologist who accompanies us on the forty-minute journey to the sharks’ home base on the seabed assures us that they are harmless, but after a few heart palpitations I climb back on board. Not so the others.

“Take lots of pictures, Mom!” Evie shouts, tossing her hair and treading water with a dozen of these supposedly peaceful creatures.

During the boat ride back, the children agree that this is the most exciting thing they have ever done. There are advantages if you’ve never seen Spielberg’s seaside horror.

Other outings prove just as memorable. On a fishing trip, the vegetarians among us are mortified by their flair – the only thing I catch is coral which I hastily throw back – while during a surfing lesson the kids master their balance, leaving my husband and I on our boards at the beach.

“Can we move here, Mom?” beam three faces, excited by their newfound prowess.

I won’t promise anything until I’ve laid face down on a massage table with a mesmerizing view of the turquoise sea. In fact, ask me again after a perfectly mixed cocktail at another perfect sunset.

We hold back tears as we say goodbye at the jetty. Felix, the new owner of a hand-woven coconut tree hat, embraces everyone as if they were friends for life. What they will always remain in our memories.

Could our second bite of the Maldives even come close? An exciting seaplane trip to Niyama, another private island resort an hour’s flight from Male, and we’re off to an exciting start.

‘That plane! That plane!’ my husband exclaims, reliving his 70s childhood and the TV series Fantasy Island, where every guest’s dream comes true during their tropical stay – albeit with unexpected twists.

Our first is discovering that we have our own butler, Imthi, who will take us everywhere in his buggy.

He starts by giving us a tour of the island as he makes his way through the sandy paths that crisscross the central jungle and are home to the 134 villas.

The second surprise is our room: a huge pavilion above the water.

“I’ve been to smaller cathedrals,” I say, blinking at the domed ceiling as the children screech in disbelief, while Imthi beams and covers his ears. “I’ve never seen a bigger TV,” my husband says, panic crossing his face as he operates the various remotes.

Not that we’ll even look at it for a second, given the other distractions at our disposal.

Outside an infinity pool, jacuzzi, swing. Inside a sunken sitting room, bar and telescope. Even, Lord help us, an electric guitar. Stairway to heaven, anyone?

“Welcome to Nature’s Playground,” reads the handwritten message on the large wall mirror, signed by the gregarious general manager Haf. It’s time to let the party begin. Because while Dhigu is a family paradise, Niyama is a high-octane jamboree where the only people who stand out from the crowd are those not wearing Dior slippers.

Does not matter. Sundowners are a great leveler, as evidenced by the surf hut where Haf starts the evening riotously, regaling us with tales of revelry as he plies us with rum.

“There’ll be a pile of bikes here tomorrow morning,” he says, nodding to a new crop of guests arriving at the waterfront bar on the custom bikes provided by the resort, but who will soon be too drunk to ride back .

By the time our island Uber drops us down for dinner at Tribal, an African restaurant buzzing with life, I feel like we could be anywhere between the Maldives and Mombasa. The menu is an explosion of culinary firsts: ostrich starter, warthog stir-fry, peanut soup.

My son and I share a fillet of dry-aged Wagyu beef, curious to see what all the fuss is about. “Gourmet,” he declares, closing his eyes in bliss.

Just like everything else that comes from the world-class kitchens here. Treetop sushi or a champagne breakfast six meters under the sea?

The only drawback is the eye-wateringly expensive wine. The cheapest is €75 per bottle. “Well, we’re here now,” my husband says sternly, as he faces financial ruin.

It would be easy to spend the days in our own private water palace, but in wanting to redeem myself from Sharkgate, I’m determined to look another sea creature in the eye and not be found wanting. Surely I can hold my own with a turtle, right?

Our last day on Fantasy Island and an afternoon boat trip with the Dior contingent. But who looks at the labels when there are dolphins doing somersaults around the stern of our boat in a show so magical that even the scary Russian on board breaks from an angry call to smile at his toddler son.

In the evening we dance ourselves crazy, barefoot on the sand, in an unforgettable evening full of reggae, ribs and rum.

With pain in our hearts we put on our non-designer shoes again. Niyama? More like Nirvana.