About Nusa Kembara
The first morning, I woke before dawn to the quiet hum of the engine and the smell of frying shallots drifting up from the galley. I climbed to the top deck in my sweatshirt—no one else was up yet—and wrapped my hand around a clay mug of strong, sweet coffee. The sky was a pale violet behind Rinca Island, and Nusa Kembara was gliding past Bidadari’s jagged fins, our bow cutting a silver path through the glassy water. I remember thinking how absurdly comfortable it felt, like we’d been doing this for years.
We made landfall at Padar just after sunrise. The air was still cool as we started the switchback climb, boots scraping on gravel, but halfway up, the wind hit us—dry, hot, carrying the scent of savannah grass. From the ridge, the triple bays fanned out like a fan: one pink, one white, one black, all glowing under the morning light. After the hike, we snorkelled at Manta Point near Komodo Island. The current was stronger than I expected, so I gripped the safety line and kicked hard. A juvenile manta, maybe two metres wide, circled below us, its wingtips flicking dust from the sand.
Back on Nusa Kembara, the crew had laid out a lunch of grilled mahi-mahi, jackfruit salad, and cold coconut water served straight from the shell. The boat is 41 metres long, built in 2022, and moves with a quiet confidence between islands. We spent the afternoon at Pink Beach, where the sand really is pink—not neon, but a soft blush when the sun hits it right. I swam out to where the slope drops off and saw a hawksbill turtle poking its head from a crevice.
On our final full day, we anchored at Taka Makassar by 7 a.m. The sandbar was already forming as the tide receded, a long finger of white sand appearing in the middle of the strait. We waded out and took the obligatory group photo, then floated on our backs, letting the current pull us slowly toward Kanawa. Snorkeling there felt like drifting through an aquarium: pygmy seahorses in the seagrass, batfish in silver schools, and a blacktip reef shark dozing under a ledge. That evening, we watched the sky burn orange behind Kalong Island as fruit bats poured from the mangroves in slow, spiralling waves.
The boat has two cabins, both ensuite, and it felt intimate—just us and one other couple. There was no rush, no queue for the sun deck. I remember lying on the forward cushion at night, wrapped in a thin blanket, staring up at a sky so dense with stars it looked like static. We docked back in Labuan Bajo just after lunch on day three. The crew handed us cold towels and fresh lime juice. I didn’t want to step off.
