About Pesona Bajo
The first morning, I woke to the smell of grilled mackerel and diesel from the galley below. It wasn’t luxury, but it was real — the crew already gutting fish for breakfast, the deck still damp from last night’s salt rinse. We’d arrived late near Kelor, anchored in that quiet blackness where only the bow light cuts the water. I stepped out barefoot, the wood still warm from the day’s sun, and saw the silhouette of Komodo Island like a crumpled foil sheet in the distance.
Pesona Bajo is a 23-metre phinisi built for function, not Instagram. We were 14 guests on a 3D2N open-share trip, spread across six wooden cabins with shared bathrooms down the hall. My room had a porthole that didn’t open, twin beds with thin mattresses, and AC that rattled like a loose bolt but kept the sweat at bay. There was no minibar, no safe, but the staff never once left the door unlocked when cleaning. The top deck had long cushions under a canvas roof — not air-conditioned, but shaded enough to nap through the midday heat while sailing between islands.
Day two started at Padar before dawn. We hiked the northern trail in the dark, headlamps bobbing ahead, then reached the ridge just as the sun split the horizon — first pink, then gold over the bay’s jagged fingers. By mid-morning, we were on Komodo Island with rangers and dry-season dust coating our ankles. The dragons didn’t care about us. They yawned, scratched, and slithered off into the scrub like they’d seen it all. Later, at Pink Beach, the sand really is tinged coral — not neon, but unmistakable when the light hits right. We swam in, snorkels cutting the surface, then floated above parrotfish and brain coral while Pesona Bajo waited 200m out.
Manta Point was the highlight. Not because we saw ten mantas — we saw two — but because they came close. One circled below me for three full minutes, its mouth open, gill plates pulsing. The current pulled me slightly off course, and for a second, I was drifting with it, heart pounding. Back on deck, the crew handed out warm towels and sweet tea. That evening, we anchored near Kalong Island. Thousands of fruit bats erupted from the mangroves at sunset, a swirling black cloud against the orange sky. No drones, no music — just the slap of water on hull and the occasional shout from another boat.
The last full day was Taka Makassar, a sandbar that appears at low tide like a mirage. We waded 100m from the boat, phones in dry bags, laughing as the current tugged at our legs. Then Kanawa, where the reef drops fast and the water turns indigo. I saw a turtle there, small, darting between coral heads. The dive master pointed, but didn’t chase. The rhythm of the trip settled in — early starts, long sails, simple meals of fried rice and cucumber salad. By afternoon, we were back in Labuan Bajo, unloading gear under a leaking awning at the dock.
