Hooked by magic of Mauritius

Travel: The Indian Ocean paradise sets its barbs into Tom Adair and reels in another convert extolling the virtues of the island.

The barracuda was definitely angry. It writhed and banged on the slippery deck, its jaws in spasm, snapping the air. It wanted revenge. I couldn't bring myself to look.

I stared at the sky. The weather due north of us was awful. The spiky mountains of Mauritius disappeared in bruises of cloud. Young Mike, the boat hand, whose job was to club the fish to death as humanely and quickly as he could, performed a dance, avoiding the jaws and the scummy teeth.

We sailed far out. Beneath us, hovering, shoals of psychedelic fish, gargantuan tuna, hammerhead sharks and spike-tusked marlin were hunting for food. A drifting sea-turtle swirled in the soup of the boiling waves and was lost to view.

"What am I doing here?" I asked myself (a klutz pursuing his "Hemingway moment"), braced and strapped in the chair that was bolted hard to the see-sawing deck "Let's hunt some marlin!" yelled Patrick, the skipper, laughing, dropping the barracuda into a vat of salty water. The engine revved through the phlegmy sea; you could feel its surge in the balls of your feet.

We looked for birds. The birds were the giveaway, Patrick said. They hung around near the schools of fish, diving, scavenging, pecking the guts of leftover kill.

Then, without warning, the line took off. Patrick yelled, and the first mate, Vincent, shoved the rod deep into my harness. As soon as it slackened - a sign that the fish had relaxed its flight - I began to heave, until everything tensed again, and the line shot away like a bullet.

The zig-zag contest played out for perhaps 20 minutes. I knew it was over when Vincent screamed out: "Look over there! It might be a goldie! Keep her steady, Tom." And by now I could see it, too. A decent dorado, its gold flesh gleaming as it barrelled through the waves.

The fish was hauled in. It leaped at the rails and Patrick hoisted it, looking far more like Papa Hemingway than I did as he hollered: "See! We got it! The one that didn't get away!"

Deep-sea fishing is one of the things for which Mauritius is famous. The marlin world championships are held here every year; serious anglers know that these waters beyond the reef are as good as it gets. "Nine England rugby internationalists fished with us yesterday," Vincent confided. "They got a big wedding today." He pointed towards the mountains. "They not catch nothing. Luck of the draw." All told, we had managed the barracuda, plus seven bonito, along with a tuna and now the dorado, 16 kilograms of muscle. It added up to beginner's luck. We turned for shore, towards happy landings.

I checked the camera to see that the moment had been commemorated in order to prove to my wife that I wasn't, as usual, bumming my load. I couldn't exactly bring the fish home.

Home, temporarily at least, was the five-star Heritage Resort, a spa and golf place at lovely Bel Ombre on the southern tip of the island where the mountains fall in ripples towards the sea. Roshan, my guide, was waiting to drive me there for some pampering once we'd landed. He didn't believe me about the dorado. Nor did my masseuse, who set about sorting out my chakras with a vengeance.

The chakras philosophy was based on seven colours - orange equalling vitality, green for loving, followed by yellow for digestion - not just of food, but of knowledge, too. There were also red and blue and indigo and violet. Or maybe indigo and violet were the names of two masseuses. I couldn't remember.

That night, over dinner, my yellow digestion chakra excelled itself. Moira Meo, a beautiful Belgian woman whose chakras were perfectly poised, explained why she lives here: the island's friendliness and the marvellous stir-fry of cultures mingling African, Indian, French, Chinese and British. Nearby, a dance troupe was making sega music, special to Mauritius, to do with slavery and tragedy. It was powerful, swirling, ecstatic and hauntingly sorrowful all at once.

Next morning we drove to the Morne peninsula where centuries ago a gang of slaves, pursued by dogs, leaped off the cliffs 600 metres above the ocean to death and freedom. The local heritage people were planning to run a trail there soon for tourists. I was planning a day on a catamaran, on my back soaking up the sun.

A day on a catamaran is a stretch. You're forced to take pictures of frolicking dolphins; snorkel in perfect, clear warm ocean; eat barbecued marlin; the only way I would ever see one. I was hooked. I reeled myself in and went with Roshan along the coast, due north to Eureka. Here sat the only remaining, furnished Creole mansion on the island. Surrounded by trees and almost deserted, it felt like a time-shift, back to the early 1830s when the sugar barons ruled.

Mauritius is special. It vacuums up honeymooners, recycles them like confetti, then blows them back home, contented, bronzed, marked with the imprint of the beach. At the luxury Heritage Spa and Golf resort and, later, at the Four Seasons Resort Anahita (complete with golf course by Ernie Els), romance was ubiquitous.

Like everywhere else - given the fact that this island is small - it was easy to get to. I took a motorboat from Mahebourg, one of the prettiest towns on the coast and arrived at the little rocky jetty. There to greet me was a guide and blocking our path stood a Madagascan giant tortoise. They are seriously endangered. "She's 40 years old and has laid her eggs," said the guide, as we climbed the boulder-strewn path.

Among the ebony trees were statues of the dodo, the flightless bird, long since extinct. It was a reminder of life's fragility. A symbol of Mauritius. Make sure you get here as soon as you can.

Need to know

Destinology is offering a week in Mauritius, including three nights half-board in a deluxe room at the Heritage Golf and Spa Resort (www.heritage-resort.com), and three nights bed and breakfast in a garden pool villa at the Four Seasons Resort, Mauritius, at Anahita (www.fourseasons.com/mauritius ), from £1769 per person.