About Panrita
The first morning, I woke before sunrise to the sound of the anchor chain rattling and the crew whispering on the foredeck. There was a chill in the air, and the sky over Rinca was still dark, but the galley was already warm with fried shallots and coffee. We’d boarded late the night before, bags thudding on the wooden steps, and I’d barely taken in Panrita — a 38-meter phinisi with broad decks and brass fittings. By dawn, I realized we were anchored near Padar, and the silhouette of its jagged peaks looked like something from another planet.
We spent the first full day island-hopping with a rhythm that felt just right. A quick snorkel at Kelor in the late afternoon gave us a taste — soft coral swaying in the current, parrotfish darting under ledges. Then, at sunset, we climbed the hill on Menjerite. It’s not high, but the view stopped me: three pinkish beaches fanning out like fingers, the boat tiny below. Dinner was grilled mahi-mahi and sambal matah under the stars, served at a long table where we all sat together — 12 guests, plus crew moving quietly between us.
Day two was the big one. Up at 5:30 for Padar at first light. The hike is steeper than it looks, but when the sun hit the bay, all five of us at the top just went quiet. The water wasn’t just blue — it was layered, like someone had poured in turquoise, emerald, and sapphire. After breakfast back on board, we went to Komodo Island. The rangers had the sticks ready, and we saw two dragons — one feeding on a dead deer, the other just lying in the shade, tongue flicking. After that, Pink Beach felt like a reward. We swam in the shallows, the sand pale pink under the surface, and I collected one small pink fragment of coral, later told it’s foraminifera — tiny organisms, not crushed shells.
Manta Point was midday. The current was stronger than I expected, but the dive master handed me a reef hook and pointed. I saw the first manta gliding below, then another, wings wider than I am tall. They circled the cleaning station like clockwork. Back on deck, cold towels and lime juice. That evening, we anchored at Kalong, a small island with a huge roost of fruit bats. As the sun dropped, thousands took flight — a swirling black river against the orange sky. The boat’s lights came on, and the crew served satay and spicy tofu.
Final morning: Taka Makassar. The sandbar appears only at low tide, a long arc of white in the middle of nowhere. We waded out, took the usual group shots, but then just stood there, ankle-deep, watching the tide roll back in. Then Kanawa — shallow reefs close to shore, perfect for lazy snorkeling. I saw a tiny blue octopus squeeze under a rock. We left at noon, motored back to Labuan Bajo in three hours. The crew handed out cold drinks and a printed photo of us on the sandbar. No pressure to tip, but we did — in cash, discreetly.
