Prologue
I didn’t sail across the Indian Ocean. I followed a sailing voyage across it.
It all began over dinner with friends, where I met a friend of a friend—an outdoor enthusiast I’ll call OE. We had a great conversation. Before we parted, he told us that, in just two days, he would set sail across the Indian Ocean with four other sailors. He offered to let us track the boat’s progress through Garmin MapShare. I signed up!
The Voyage
The plan was to sail from Bali, Indonesia, to Mauritius, with one stop ashore at the Cocos (Keeling) Islands. Mauritius lies in the Indian Ocean, east of Madagascar and about 1,100 nautical miles off the southeastern coast of Africa. The crew expected to cover roughly 3,600 nautical miles in 31 days.
In the end, they sailed 3,488.5 nautical miles in 24 days, including a three-day stop at Cocos.
Each day, OE shared the boat’s position and track through Garmin MapShare, along with photos and brief updates. The boat also had Starlink, so the crew could stay connected while far out at sea.
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| From Bali to Mauritius |
What I Was Curious About
I’m not even keen on kayaking in open water for more than a few hours. Sailing across the Indian Ocean for nearly a month is certainly not an adventure I would choose for myself.
But I was curious. What would OE and his crewmates see and experience? How would they cope with loneliness and boredom—five people confined to a small space, doing much the same things day after day, surrounded by seemingly endless water?
I even did a little reading to understand what a month-long journey across the open ocean might be like. One idea I came across was that, even when people can stay in touch with family and friends, the unchanging horizon and lack of new sights can become psychologically challenging.
I wondered how much of that OE’s crew would experience.
OE's Voyage
This account is based on the photographs and short comments OE shared by email with those of us following his “Sailing Across the Indian Ocean” adventure.
The first week: Excitement and discovery
The boat left Bali in the late afternoon of September 10, 2026, at around six o’clock in the afternoon. The first day went smoothly, and the crew soon sailed into the sunset.
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| ready to depart for the voyage at Bali |
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| sailing towards west |
OE didn’t write much about how he felt, but his photos offered clues. In one, he was still awake at two in the morning, wearing a red headlamp. In another, he was on deck the following afternoon, scanning the sea through a telescope. By the third day, though, he had gone to bed as early as eight o’clock. Perhaps the excitement was already giving way to the demands of life aboard a boat.
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| early sleep (8pm) on the 3rd night |
The fifth night seemed ideal for stargazing. The sky was clear, and the crew stayed up late to watch the stars. Two photos were timestamped 2:59 a.m. and 3:00 a.m. OE also finally found some time that evening to work on his laptop.
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| Star Gazing in the middle of Indian Ocean 1 |
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| Star Gazing in the middle of Indian Ocean 2 |
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| Scrambled eggs, tomatoes and meat for day 6 breakfast |
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| Fishing in the morning, 7am, at the stern |
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| Diving from the sail boat |
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| an inflatable boat to go to the Cocos island |
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| celebrating completion the 1st stage of the voyage |
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| Sunrise on the start of the second part of the voyage - Cocos to Ma |
The second leg: When the days begin to blur
After leaving Cocos, the routine began to repeat itself: the vast ocean, sunrise behind them, sunset ahead, and occasional swims. The initial excitement seemed to fade, and boredom began to creep in. Even the consistently dry weather, which might sound like a blessing, had become monotonous. A change in the weather would at least have offered something different to look at.
Then, on day 18—the seventh day of the second leg—something unexpected happened. Flying fish and flying squid came hurtling toward the boat. One squid actually hit OE on the head!
It sounded like a scene from a movie. Experiencing it in person must have been both startling and thrilling.
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| squids flew into the sail boat |
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| flying fishes fell onboard |
On day 19, I noticed from a couple of photos that it had finally rained. I wrote to OE: “Finally, there was rain!”
His reply was memorable:
“Ha, when it rains it pours. 😳 Also, our autopilot is having electrical issues, so lots of hand steering. Thanks for checking in Allan. It has been surprisingly lonely out here, and every single note helps.”
I was struck by his admission: *“It has been surprisingly lonely out here.”*
I had expected the crew to face boredom. After all, the same five people were sharing a small space, surrounded by little more than sea and sky, for weeks on end. They had activities to break up the day—swimming, fishing, cooking, and stargazing—and Starlink allowed them to communicate with family and friends. Yet none of these could fully dispel the loneliness.
Perhaps that was what surprised me most. Being connected is not the same as feeling connected. A message from someone on shore might have meant more to OE than I had imagined. His words made me realize that even a remarkable adventure can have long, quiet stretches when a simple note from home—or from a bystander following along—makes a difference.
Land at last
Fortunately, the wind was behind them, and the crew was running about a week ahead of schedule. As they approached Mauritius, large ships began to appear. Then, at last, land came into view.
The boat arrived near Mauritius at around nine o’clock on the evening of 24th day. They could not enter the harbour after dark, so they had to anchor about a mile from the port and wait.
The ocean crossing was essentially over: 24 days and roughly 3,500 nautical miles behind them.
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| Mauritius |
Epilogue
