Paradise Found but Not Lost: Sailing into Cocos Keeling

I guess I had always been sceptical whether those tropical island paradises you see on the cover of postcards really existed. I have travelled enough to know that for every photo of the ‘perfect beach’, there are a dozen tacky resorts and hotels hidden just outside the frame. And if you visit, you’ll invariably find many sunburnt and hungover tourists have beaten you there.

But as I sailed into Cocos Keeling, I realised I had been wrong.

Cocos Keeling is an atoll of mostly uninhabited islands, 3,000 kilometres from Australia. Altogether these islands equal just 13km² with 600 residents, mainly Malays, living lives undisturbed by the rest of the world. There is little reason for anyone to visit; virtually no tourist infrastructure exists. And it’s remote. One expensive flight per week connects it with Perth, the world’s most isolated city. However if you are sailing across the Indian Ocean, it is likely on your way. Just like cycling around the world, sailing drags you off the tourist trail and to places you would never normally visit.

By the time we dropped anchor beside Direction Island, a welcome party of 5 sharks were circling our boat. For 5 days those sharks never left us, daring to venture a little closer to investigate our thrashing saucepan and collect any food scraps as we washed up. Remembering a half-forgotten conversation with a dive instructor who said Black-Tip Reef Sharks aren’t dangerous, I began each morning by swimming beside them. It made me feel very alive.

Direction Island, where we anchored, is long, thin, and wraps around the lagoon like a crescent moon. The island’s eastern side faces the dark, angry waters of the Indian Ocean, fierce waves beat the rocky shore and dump flip flops, plastic bottles and lighters carried from thousands of miles away. A minutes’ walk away the western side which faces the lagoon is entirely opposite; its sheltered and peaceful waters are several degrees warmer and many shades of blue lighter, with beaches that absorb every golden ray of sunlight and stretched endlessly around the giant arc of the island.

Palm trees grow everywhere on Direction Island, fanning above us like green fireworks, and historically, coconuts have been Cocos Keeling’s sole export, but today the market is gone, and coconuts lay at the base of every tree. After days at sea, Ant and I ran around collecting coconuts, hacking them open and letting fresh milk dribble between our lips, barely finishing one before cracking open the next. Affixed to one tree was a makeshift basketball hoop; we took turns trying to slam-dunk a coconut through, and seeing how far away we could score from. We celebrated our game of coconut-ball by eating another coconut.

Best of all, no-one lived on Direction Island. The only building was a basic wooden toilet shack, and a few covered picnic benches. Tied to the trees were pieces of driftwood etched with the names and dates of yachts who had passed here. One plinth recorded a vessel which had come here twice, first in 1981, again in 2005. We wrote ‘Leia B – 9/2018’ on a length of wood, adding our adventure to the history records of those before us. By one bench was a landline phone – there is no mobile coverage anywhere on the islands – and a directory containing important phone numbers. At the back of the directory, was a pizza menu and a number that promised pizza delivery to your yacht. If that’s not paradise, then what is?

We had arrived on a Sunday, and we met a young couple who had moved from Australia a year ago and were enjoying a typical weekend; they’d gone for a ride in their boat, been snorkelling, caught a fish and were now BBQ’ing it wrapped in a leaf. They offered a piece of the white flesh to me which melted on my tongue. He was a carpenter and she was one of the islands two doctors. I asked if they were going to stay, which made them both laugh, ‘why would we ever want to leave?’ They appeared shocked, still not believing this was really their life. I asked for any recommendations. ‘Oh, you gotta go swimming in The Rip.’ he beamed, ‘Wait, you’re both strong swimmers?’. We nodded. ‘Okay, The Rip. Go to the bottom of the island and jump in on the Ocean side.’ he instructed. We thanked them and left.

The Rip. It sounded ominous. I hadn’t asked why we needed to be strong swimmers and immediately wished I had. We walked to the end of the island, waded into the water against a strong current, until we could go no further. Here, the sea gushes through a narrow strip between the southern tip of Direction Island and the northern reaches of the next island to fill the lagoon. I grabbed a big rock with one hand, attached my mask, snorkel and fins, and then my fingers began to slip from the rock, and the current pulled me away. The acceleration was immediate, like jumping from a plane. It was impossible to swim against the water, wherever it was going, we were joining it.

No matter how many times I dip into the underwater world, I am always surprised that first time I stick my head in the water. From above there is no indication that a thriving metropolis lies concealed beneath the waves. Ant and I drifted on the aquatic conveyor belt securing only fleeting glimpse of a rapidly-changing scene. At first we pointed out the interesting sights so neither missed anything, but we soon gave up, as there was too much to see. Sea cucumbers the size of babies sprawled on the sea-floor. Giant clams snapped shut. Sharks prowled past. Fish rested in the eddies behind coral while others battled into the current, gulping morsels of food it carried with it. There was a noisy chatter of fish feeding and biting chunks from the coral.

Once through the narrows of the two islands, the current slowed down before stopping altogether. We were a long way from where we had jumped into the Indian Ocean 20 minutes before, but it was only a short swim back to the boat. We plunged into The Rip many times over the next days, and every time we were rewarded with something new to see. Ant had worked as a diving instructor but he agreed it was the best snorkelling or diving he had ever seen.

The next morning, we had to report to Home Island - a 30 minute dinghy ride - to visit immigration which had been closed when we arrived (Sunday). Home Island felt sleepy and peaceful, probably largely due to there being no cars and only golf carts. We found the police station, where we had to register. It was unlocked but there was no-one there. The tiny office had a single desk, a laptop left open and papers strewn across the desk. I wondered what type of crime, if any, existed here.

A man next door told us to wait, she would be back soon. I got the impression there was only one police officer on the island. I flicked through a few issues of ‘The Atoll’, the island’s monthly newspaper which more closely resembled a school newsletter, congratulating the island’s sports teams on recent victories, showing photos from the end of Ramadan ‘Hari Raya’ celebration and advertising a Beach BBQ. I read the obituary and was pleased to see no-one had died last month. There were a few jokes, inspirational quotes, and healthy living tips which imparted wisdom such as ‘stop smoking’. It was a delightful read, bringing only good news. Perhaps there was only ever good news to share in Cocos Keeling.

The police woman soon arrived. She had a golf cart too, an ordinary one with no lights or sirens. She signed us into immigration quickly, wished us a pleasant stay, and said we should buy our food now, the plane had arrived yesterday so if we were quick, we might still find fresh food.

Over the next days, other yachts anchored beside us at Direction Island. Each evening, we would have a sundowner, gathering at sunset to BBQ food together and experiment with various concoctions to discover which alcohol coconut mixed best with. Ant and I were always the last to swim back to our boat, after swinging in a hammock, gazing out across the bay of Direction Island illuminated by the full moon, and marvelling at how lucky we were.

Before I arrived, I didn’t know places like Cocos Keeling existed, places so remote and difficult to reach that they have escaped the grip and ruination of tourism. There is an irony in me, a tourist, saying this, but for as long as Cocos Keeling remains hard to get to, it will be a precious secret reserved for those who sail across the Indian Ocean.