Okinawa, Japan, sits along the Ryukyu Island chain connecting Taiwan and the Japanese mainland.
A budget airline round-trip ticket costs under NT$4,000, with a flight time of no more than 1.5 hours — plenty short enough for a proper island getaway. And yet, we willfully chose to sail a 45-ft (approximately 13-metre) heavy-displacement sailboat across the Ryukyu Trench, spending a full three days riding the wind and the Kuroshio Current, counting the days and nights, checking in with the Milky Way each evening, and wandering our way to Okinawa. We wanted to find out for ourselves, through a journey this deeply etched in memory, whether Okinawa truly lived up to what Taiwanese media has been saying — that going to Okinawa beats going to Kenting — and whether it really is as breathtaking and unforgettable as all that.
A lone boat on the open ocean
When sailing on long passages with friends or seasoned skippers, the usual routine is simple: once everyone's briefed on the mission, you wait for a weather window and cast off — rarely do you draw up a fixed itinerary and follow it to the letter. Sea conditions in late September are already as unpredictable as a girlfriend's mood, so this Okinawa trip was no different: maximum efficiency, gather up, and go. Everyone aboard was an experienced mariner, each with a go-bag packed and ready at home at all times. Sailing with people you trust makes for a relaxed and enjoyable passage — whatever the ocean throws at us, we'd handle it when we got there.
The Pacific just after sunrise — nearly windless, haze hanging on the horizon, sea and sky merging into one mirror-like expanse
Departing from Houbihu in Kenting, covering 450 nautical miles on a heading of approximately 55 degrees — if conditions matched our passage plan, riding the Kuroshio Current would give us a meaningful boost in speed. Optimistically calculating at 7 knots, that's 65 hours, or 2 days and 17 hours, to reach the waters near Naha, Okinawa. We confirmed that both weather and vessel were in ideal shape for departure. The only remaining brain work was estimating fuel and provisioning food and water.
Three days of light-to-no wind meant fuel — we were absolutely going to need a full tank. As for four big guys and their appetites: when we checked out at the PX Mart, our loyalty points totalled 77 — which tells you everything you need to know about how seriously we take eating.
With such experienced crew handling the passage, I was free to take on the role of documentarian — chasing photography, a lifelong obsession
After buying all this, we had enough PX Mart points to redeem a prize on the spot
Life at sea is nothing like the comfort of life on land. Knowing we'd be out on the water for three straight days, we put rations and fresh water on strict limits — no lavish meals every sitting, and no daily showers either. So on the morning of departure I rose early, enjoyed what would be my last proper wash ashore for a while, and turned up at the dock feeling fresh and ready to knock out the final pre-departure checks.
A three-day passage is nothing extraordinary for us, but sailing offshore is still a rare pursuit for most Taiwanese families. So beyond our crew of four, friends from Hengchun came down to the dock to see us off, wave us on, and wish us fair winds and safe passage.
Each crew member in their element
Taiwan's southeastern tip, Eluanbi, is notorious for treacherous waters. Because the outer circulation of a typhoon had still been affecting the area just days before our departure, rounding Cape Eluanbi was the most harrowing stretch of the entire voyage — but it lasted only about half an hour, barely worth dwelling on. Once we cleared the cape, we watched Taiwan slowly disappear behind us, faced the open Pacific, set our course for the Okinawa archipelago, and began counting down the nautical miles.
200 nautical miles offshore, the Kuroshio at 5,000 metres deep runs this impossibly deep shade of blue
Taiwan's Green Island and Orchid Island, and Japan's Miyakojima in Okinawa Prefecture, were the islands we'd pass within range of on this voyage — each one a brief window to pick up a signal and reconnect with the world. Out on the open ocean, spending continuous days and nights alone with yourself, you learn to read the wind and the waves. I had no real urge to stay plugged in. I fired off a quick "all safe" message, downloaded a few favourite songs, rolled over, and turned my full attention back to the sea.
The southeastern tip of Japan's Miyakojima — Higashi-Hennazaki
The sailing conditions on Taiwan's eastern coast — out on the Pacific — are worlds apart from those along the western coastline and the Taiwan Strait. The west coast borders mainland China and is busy with large commercial vessels and fishing boats; add to that Taiwan's economic development concentrated in the west, and the light pollution at night is intense enough to cast a shadow on the water's surface. The east is the complete opposite. Just 100 metres off the shoreline, the seafloor plunges to depths of 500 metres; only large pelagic species venture here. Because there's virtually no land between Taiwan's east coast and the American West Coast, commercial shipping traffic is far lighter. Night watches are easier out here — a touch lonelier, perhaps — but being cradled by a clear, unobstructed Milky Way makes everything feel right with the world.
Falling like a star, falling in love.
In the dark, with vision stripped away, instinct takes over. I let my senses expand. In those moments I am more alert than at any other time. Humans are small, yes — but standing inside the whole of the universe, I feel infinite.
The morning we arrived in Okinawan waters was not my watch, so what woke me was the noise of the senior crew working on deck. I'll admit I was a little put out — seeing land is something everyone looks forward to, and I thought: How did no one wake me up for this sunrise? But I snapped awake fast, no time to sulk. I grabbed the drone and sent it into the sky.
Aerial photography demands total concentration — at that moment I was shooting above the cloud layer at 450 metres altitude, capturing what became the cover photo for this article
Hand-launching and hand-catching a drone at sea is a skill that demands quick reflexes
This was a special shot to capture. Going up the mast for maintenance is nothing unusual on a sailboat, but doing it at sea with the sails actively flying requires genuine experience and skill. Being able to document — from the air — this perfect blend of teamwork and technique was something we all felt quietly proud of.
Beauty of sailing.
On the afternoon we arrived in Okinawa, after we'd berthed and made fast, Japanese customs and coast guard officials were friendly and efficient in helping us clear entry formalities. The excellent marina facilities and warm staff were exactly what we needed after a long offshore passage. The feeling of solid ground underfoot again released all the built-up tension. We savoured a proper Japanese dinner, everyone cleaned up quickly, cracked open Orion beers, toasted to a safe arrival, then retreated to our bunks — where the sounds of snoring from all quarters needed no introduction.
The most genuine smile
After completing the passage, we had planned a few days of island-hopping around the Okinawa outlying islands aboard the sailboat — I'll share all of that in the next article. And as for whether Okinawa truly possesses whatever magic has led Taiwanese visitors to boldly declare "Okinawa beats Kenting" — my personal verdict will be revealed then too!
A moment of total focus
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