The night is almost over when we motor our dinghy across Namatote Strait, drawn by the glinting fluorescent bulbs of a dozen fishing trimarans. The lights that attract the nightly catch lure us in too, calling to fishermen as we draw alongside for “ikan besar?” – big fish – and by that we mean whale sharks.
Moving from boat to boat, we race against the rising sun that heralds the moment when nets are hauled up and the whale sharks return to the depths. A fisherman waves frantically to us and we zip across to tie up alongside, donning fins and masks and slipping silently over the side. Through the clearest of waters, warm and calm, a whale shark circles languidly up from the seabed, it’s enormous mouth agape to scoop up the sea.
A second whale shark appears and we glide together, diving deeply and pushing every breath hold to linger in this mesmerising, fleeting dance. When the sun finally rises and the last of the tiny fish fall as nets are hauled on board, the whale sharks disappear leaving us spellbound in their wake.
Sizing yourself up against the planet’s largest fish is as bucket-list as it gets, and it’s this experience (and some excellent dive sites) that bring sailors to Indonesia’s wild, West Papuan coast. From November through to April, whales sharks follow the plankton-rich currents funnelled into Triton Bay, and local fishermen broker incredible encounters.
Triton Bay is about as far east as you can go in Indonesia and still be on the sea, and if you are looking to escape, it’s some kind of nirvana. There’s one friendly resupply town (Kaimana) and a solitary dive resort (Triton Bay Divers), and a maze of towering karst outcrops hide the most breathtaking of anchorages. Hornbills turn heads as they launch themselves from lofty limestone pinnacles, and when you’re done with the day’s diving, you can dinghy tour along a seawall etched with ancient rock art. But Triton Bay is just the beginning.
The Indonesian Archipelago is huge and the 17,508 islands that cradle Asia’s south-eastern fringe stretch for more than 2700 nautical miles. A loose itinerary works best if you really want to explore, and in an entire year spent exploring 160 different anchorages, we only just made it to Java.
There’s no one way to cruise it all and a million routes are possible, whether you’re diving coral reefs, searching for cultural encounters, surfing reef breaks or hiking to volcanoes and waterfalls. If time is on your side and you start in the east, you’ll probably linger longest in Raja Ampat before cruising west and south to eyeball Komodo dragons in Flores, glide with mantas and rejoin civilisation to sip cocktails in Lombok and Bali.
Raja Ampat’s Four Kings
About 20 day-sails north of Triton Bay and occupying a majestic corner of the world-famous Coral Triangle, Raja Ampat dazzles ocean-lovers with a species list that’s second-to-none. Deep, powerful currents flowing into the region carry with them the kinds of large marine mammals that make divers’ hearts sing, and the biodiversity is just nuts. Think manta rays, dugongs and sea turtles – all encountered within easy reach of anchorages – along with the highest density of reef fish ever recorded, and a whopping 75 per cent of the world’s coral species.
Island anchorages lie nestled beneath towering limestone walls, and the forests beyond are home to southern cassowaries, cuscus and Raja Ampat’s own red bird of paradise. Known to Papuans as cendrawasih and thought to be the reincarnation of fairies, red birds of paradise put on splendiferous sunrise shows, and expert trackers around Friwen Island collect cruisers at first light for early morning forest wanders.
Saved by its sheer isolation, Raja Ampat might be overrun were it not so far away. But sailors who arrive via Darwin, Davao or Malaysia’s Kota Kinabalu, have the best of these cruising grounds to themselves. The region is divided into the ‘Four Kings’, a quartet of pristine marine island sanctuaries that surround the mainland port of Sorong.
Of these, Pulau Misool thrills us the most, located to the far south and little visited. Poised like a stingray in the sea, its tail trails east in a fractured swirl of limestone pillars and outcrops that hide turquoise, coral-fringed lagoons. Extreme anchorage depths and the fragility of Misool’s flamboyant, wildly blooming reefs demand that, in most places, sailors keep their anchors on board and tie off instead to its sheer karst walls.
Twin 100m lengths of floating rode do the job, and after jingling around in the dinghy, we finally perfected the technique. With the boat secured we launched the toys, paddling kayaks and climbing limestone craters. We swam in secret, landlocked lagoons and dared ourselves deep into a cave, past bats clinging restlessly to shimmering stalactites, and catching gangly blind cave spiders in our torch beams. A marine sanctuary protects the island chain and with great diving and exploring, it’s one of the most difficult locations to leave.
Diving the Dampier Strait
Raja Ampat’s remaining three ‘kings’ lie a few sailing days to the north, separated by the Dampier Strait that memorialises English explorer, privateer and pirate, William Dampier. A three-time circumnavigator, Dampier finally gained esteem with the 1697 publication of his book A New Voyage Round the World, and was later given command of the warship HMS Roebuck. In 1699, after sailing Roebuck up the West Australian coast, Dampier reached Timor and pushed north through Raja Ampat’s Dampier Strait to sail north over PNG and beyond.
Today, Dampier Strait is renown for its swift, plankton-rich currents and the big-ticket marine identities that feed on them. Manta rays are common in the strait from October to April, and if you’re going to spot whales in Indonesian waters, chances are you’ll encounter them while sailing through here. The channel has its own MPA (marine protected area) and islands here – Arborek, Kri and Mansuar – provide some truly memorable dives, tempered only by the reality that all that plankton will likely reduce visibility.
We swim with mantas in the middle of the strait, where the underwater world just explodes with life. Later, we drift with turtles and small mantas along the strait’s northern edge, and dinghy through a myriad of blue-green lagoons and jagged sea pinnacles.
It was on Gam Island that naturalist Alfred Russell Wallace synthesised his theory of evolution. Wallace credited his clarity to a bout of malaria he suffered on Gam, where he’d established a camp at the head of Dore Mkun Inlet after sailing through Waigeo’s Kabui Pass. In his book – The Malay Archipelago – Wallace called Raja Ampat “the only region where all together new and unimagined forms of life may perhaps be found”.
Getting wooed by Wayag
Sailing north towards Wayag – the jewel in Raja Ampat’s crown – cruisers cross that magical line at Kawae’s Equator Isles. Ours was a decidedly squally arrival, riding a rugged swell in a whiteout rainstorm, with David wrangling a huge tuna off the stern, my daughter dancing in the rain (as protocol insisted she should), and me on the helm trying to film the whole shebang.
Kawae’s mangrove-fringed, muddy bays are custom-made for estuarine (saltwater) crocodiles, but encounters aren’t common in Indonesia. The four-metre saltie that sidled past our stern, just as David was about to go overboard, quickly nixed our plans for underwater exploring. Instead, we ate fresh tuna, two ways, and sipped chilly beers with new friends before pushing north to the destination most Indonesian cruisers dream of.
We waited until Wayag to plunge into turquoise lagoons guarded by soaring limestone isles. This is where you’ll drag out the dive tanks and paddle boards, and sip your sundowners with feet dug into the sand, arguing about which thrills you more – the riotously colourful underwater world, or the hiking trails to verdant clifftop lookouts.
There’s plenty of room to anchor and Wayag’s dive sites are unforgettable. We drifted and dove along the island’s far southern fringe, spotting lagoon rays, cuttlefish, turtles and moray eels, and stood ankle-deep in the shallows as black-tipped reef sharks swirled thrillingly close.
Dinghy-exploring through Wayag’s jungly maze of rock and sea, we picnicked on hidden white sand beaches, secreted away from the world, and climbed Mount Pindito for big-picture vistas of verdant karst spires and opalescent bays. Like almost everyone who visits, Wayag gripped up long after the fresh supplies had run out, until a break in the weather coaxed us west with Halmahera’s surf breaks firmly on our minds.
Surf & Volcanos
Routes west of Wayag lure intrepid surfers and volcano hikers on overnight sails to Halmahera. We wove our way around it all, pushing west and north to loop around the very top of Halmahera and ride the gentle, beginner breaks off Morotai at the island’s topmost tip.
Most breaks suit experienced riders, but our youngster schooled up on beginner breaks off the islands of Tuputupu, Dodola Besar and Meti. All the while Mount Dukono boomed, showering our decks with thick clouds of black volcanic ash that only the regular afternoon squalls could wash away. In the friendly town of Tobelo we easily restocked supplies of fresh food and fuel, and headed back out to sea on a month-long journey down Halmahera’s rugged west coast.
Fellow cruisers might have been in short supply, but we found community in the locals who stopped us mid-passage to gift us buckets of cumi cumi (squid) and sell us fresh catches of fish. But it wasn’t all plain sailing.
Somewhere on this largely unpopulated coastline I contracted malaria, and the onset of fever, headache and total malaise was relentless and swift. The inevitability of illness and accidents in truly far-flung places keeps many an intrepid sailor firmly on the beaten path. Since arriving in Indonesia the mishaps were mounting: we had glued up a fellow cruiser’s ear after a deck fall, tweezed sea urchin spines out of feet, and strapped up Dave’s broken hand after a deck block exploded.
In places where there are no doctors, you depend on a well-stocked first aid kit, sound knowledge of how to use it, and good gut instincts that tell you when you need to pick up the anchor and run for help.
Sulawesi passage-making
From Ambon we braved the current-plagued Seram Sea on an overnight sail that had it all. For the first 30 dark nautical miles we weaved through a sea of FADs – floating bamboo structures used to attract fish – that were anchored in waters up to 2km deep. Plastic bags snagged on our propellers demanding mid-sea swims, and we sucked more plastic up into the engine, requiring a 3am engine overhaul in steep two metre-high swell.
The currents tossed us about so hard that my daughter fell out of bed, and we needed two of us on deck to pick a path through the lightning storms that exploded in a rugged maelstrom all night long. Having earned our stripes and after a patient week playing tourist in Bau Bau’s waterfalls and caves, we were rewarded with a tranquil weather window, right when we needed it.
When the gods send benevolent weather your way, you want to be sailing towards Taka Bonerate National Park, located halfway between Sulawesi’s southern tip and the island of Flores. The tiniest of specks in a vast, exposed sea, Taka Bonerate is home to the third biggest atoll in the world (the others are found in the Marshall and Moldiva Isles). Its slender sand cays and low-slung isles offer little protection when the sea rears up, but good timing and a glassy sea allowed us to idle for days, snorkelling and freediving with mates around barely-there sand cays.
There be dragons
Flores eventually pulled us south to Komodo National Park to dive with manta rays, ogle enormous Komodo dragons, and explore the kinds of coral reefs only Raja Ampat could possibly surpass. In the tourist town of Labuan Bajo we devoured the delicacies we’d long been missing: good wine, a huge range of cheeses, and lots of places to sit and sip and people-watch as we ate.
Made up of dozens of islands and gathering manta rays in vast numbers, Komodo National Park harbours coral reefs, pink sand beaches and trails to wander in search of the sizable Komodo dragon. Reaching three metres in length and weighing up to 100kg, the world’s largest lizard can take down a buffalo or deer (and gruesomely, they have been known to also eat their young). Local guides lead hikes armed with very big sticks, which makes for thrilling wanders that might have you questioning your stronghold at the top of the food chain.
From Flores to Bali, our sailing days were shortened by a grand choice of anchorages and plenty to do ashore. We anchored off Satonda’s extinct volcanic crater to swim in its water-filled core, and placed small pebbles on a sacred kalibuda tree to wish all our dreams come true.
We finally rejoined civilisation in Lombok and Bali, swapping all those lonely beaches and sunset campfires for icy marina beers and delicious meals cooked by someone else. Bali is a special place with a culture, religion and way of life that is distinctly different to every other Indonesian island. Local people are relaxed, English is widely spoken, and wearing a little less clothing gives no offence here, all of which relaxed us too.
We lingered for weeks and put down some roots. Anchored in a bay beside West Bali’s Dolphin Project rehabilitation centre, we helped care for rescued turtles and watched their joyous release back to the wild. And with Bali’s best dive site just a few miles away, we explored Menjangan Island’s fringing reefs while Java’s oh-so-close volcanoes snagged the clouds overhead.
Cruising a country like Indonesia feels like a million destinations in one, and when you find one that fits, you know you’ve hit the jackpot. There’s an awful lot that can woo you underwater in Indonesia, but it’s what you discover when you dry off – the people, the connections, the moments of wonder – that keep you forever spellbound.
*A version of this feature by Catherine Lawson and David Bristow first appeared in Yachting World magazine.
