(FORTUNE Magazine) – Somewhere in the crystalline equatorial waters of the Maldive islands, in the vast blue blankness of the Indian Ocean, a man floats effortlessly, rocked ever so slightly by loving currents, kissed by the sun, and buoyed by the knowledge that the nearest care is 13,000 miles away.

Then, like a cloud marring a flawless cerulean sky, a thought appears. It whispers, as if it knows it wasn't invited.

"Breathe," it says. Oh, yeah.

The man pulls air into his lungs, and the thought vanishes like a tropical fish. Beneath him, three grains of sand--dislodged by a slight tidal surge--settle into a new home. A few yards off the platinum beach, equilibrium returns.

In far less time than it takes to get here, a visitor understands that Rihiveli Island, in the Republic of Maldives, is the essential island paradise. That understanding is born not of reason but osmosis--by absorbing the tropical sky, clouds, and water, the briny air, the floury caress of sand, and the complete absence of unruly crowds or uncouth commercialism. Buffered by distance (24 hours in the air from California), culture (the Muslim nation has some of the more restrictive tourist policies in the world), and cost (whoa, daddy, don't get me started), these islands are too exotic, too remote, and too sedate for the hordes hanging out at the Hard Rock Cafe in Cancun.

From above, the Maldives appear as floating flowers: tiny patches of graceful coconut palms set into concentric rings of white sand and coral reef--all bathed in water that defines the word "aquamarine" and air that stays a constant 80 to 90 degrees year-round. This isn't the sort of place to waste on trivial little excursions like vacations or honeymoons; you work your way here, first by visiting the well-trodden and even tawdry paths of the Caribbean, Cozumel, and maybe Tahiti. Then, when you're ready to celebrate your adulthood or just to revel in your own success, you book yourself a flight halfway around the world and hope you make it without cracking. (See box.)

Wary of losing its unique island and Islamic cultures, the Maldivian government opened the nation for tourism nearly 30 years ago, when it began granting concessions to resort developers on individual, uninhabited islands. (Even today, tourists are restricted to resort islands and rarely have much contact with locals.) Now, scattered throughout the 1,100-mile-long chain of more than a thousand islands (not including countless satellites), there are roughly 80 resorts, ranging from those suitable for royalty (like the Four Seasons) to the slightly above suitable, from the big and soulless (like Club Med) to the sweet and simple.

Barely a quarter-mile long by about 100 yards wide, Rihiveli ("silver sand") Island is a tiny oasis in a desert of blue. As you arrive on a traditional boat called a dhoni with an escort of dolphins and flying fish, it seems nearly fragile against the limitless expanse of ocean. Shaggy palms camouflage most every sign of man except for a long dock and two tiny, thatched buildings: the reception area and the dive center. The remaining structures--communal dining area, kitchen and laundry, and 50 beachside bungalows--are tucked into thick greenery to protect the island's aesthetics and the guests' privacy. Two small islands shadow Rihiveli, but the nearest inhabited one is a mere speck on the horizon.

My first day on Rihiveli was filled with overwhelming choices. Should I lie in the hammock, on the chaise, at the edge of the dock over the water, or right there on the flawless sand? Should I nap before lunch, after lunch, or both? Should I reapply sunscreen, or just roll over?

Eventually I settled into a rhythm. Waking naturally before the sun came up, I'd try to get something resembling exercise before the heat of the day set in. Usually that meant kayaking along the perimeter of Rihiveli's lagoon. I'd trace graceful curves that paralleled the peninsulas of sand left bare by the tide. Then, drifting slowly on what seemed to be molten glass, I'd sit in awe, staring down at a reef flashing with life. When I'd seen enough, I'd paddle back, slide the boat onto the sand, and meet my girlie for breakfast and thick French coffee. As the sun began to bake, we'd head for the water. Perhaps there'd be a swim, followed by still another swim. Maybe a scuba session on a neighboring atoll. Or water skiing, or wading for miles through knee-deep water, or maybe just a sublime, elemental float.

Eventually a hint of island fever kicked in, so we signed up for Rihiveli's overnight boat safari to explore the outer islands and dive on remote reefs. Amazingly, no other guests took advantage of the free trip, so we had the dhoni and its crew to ourselves. Slipping through the gap in Rihiveli's protective reef, we aimed south toward the curving horizon and motored till we came upon a tiny uninhabited island, which we inhabited for several hours while the crew fished for dinner.

When they returned, we were smiling, sunbaked, and ready for a cool night under the stars. Later, as we bunked out on the deck of the dhoni, it was with renewed appreciation for where we were--10,000 miles from the nearest Hard Rock. That knowledge alone was worth every penny.