If there is one thing that became clear early in this passage, it’s that night changes everything. (If you missed part 1, click here)
The first evening after leaving Australia gave us our introduction. The western horizon glowed, not like stars or constellations, but like a distant city at sea. A low, steady brightness spread across the darkness, far too expansive to be natural. Based on the scale of the glow, we assumed it was a Chinese fishing fleet. There were more than fifty boats in that one area alone, with other clusters scattered farther west.
Seeing that many boats at once is unsettling, but at least they were visible. Lights on. Positions clear enough. We altered course slightly and passed without incident.
As we rounded the tip of New Guinea, the seas changed. Currents converged as they funneled into the Torres Strait between Australia and New Guinea, and the water became confused, waves moving in several directions at once, the motion irregular and unpredictable, like being inside a washing machine. The boat rolled and jerked, never quite settling.
Twenty-four hours in, things still felt manageable. Seas eventually calmed. The fishing boats were now in smaller groups. The wind, unexpectedly, was in our favor, allowing us to sail rather than motor-sail. Batteries stayed full. The watermaker worked. For a brief stretch, things felt almost… easy.
The second night changed the rules.
This time, the problem wasn’t too many lights—it was too few. On AIS a long line of boats appeared ahead of us. All were broadcasting positions. All were numbered. None had lights on.
It was a very dark night. We slowed and studied the screen, trying to make sense of what we were seeing. Going miles around them in either direction didn’t seem appealing, so we looked for a gap. There was one between boats numbered #2 and #5, and we aimed for it.
As we closed in, a new target appeared. Boat #1. Right in the middle of the gap.
To their credit, they turned on their AIS in time for us to see them clearly. We maneuvered around without trouble, but I was deeply grateful for that last-minute visibility. Try as we might, peering into the darkness, we could not make out the shape of a hull. Without AIS, we would have been navigating blind.
Moving forward, I hoped for one of two things: either boats would have AIS, or they would have lights. Ideally both. I had heard that as we got closer to Indonesia, there would be small fishing boats at night with neither. It was not a comforting thought.
Daytime brought only brief moments of sailing. Mostly, we motored. The wind and current were no longer cooperating, and the boat began to slam, especially up in the v-berth. “Sleep” became an optimistic term. Eventually, both of us migrated to the cockpit, where rest came in short, interrupted stretches.
As if the boats weren’t enough, the water itself offered more hazards. Large logs and tree stumps floated past, barely visible until they were beside us, or behind us. At least one struck the boat in the middle of the night. We never saw it coming.
Later, another mystery revealed itself. AIS showed four boats in a tight clump ahead of us. As we passed, it became very clear there was only one boat. Beyond it, AIS insisted there were three more in a line. There were not.
Sometimes, it seemed one boat was broadcasting multiple signals. Ghost boats. Phantom fleets. It explained a lot, why we struggled to see what the screen insisted was there, and why the absence of lights was sometimes not carelessness, but illusion.
By now, the nights felt longer. The horizon felt closer. And the sense of what might be out there, real, imagined, or somewhere in between—was no longer abstract.
Because the more time we spent out there, the clearer it became: the hardest part wasn’t what we could see.
It was everything we couldn’t.
Next in Part 3 - what’s happening on the boat, sleep deprivation, slamming seas, and the first signs that things were beginning to break.
We love to hear your comments.
So scary.
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