KEY POINTS:
We're anchored just off Ko Muk, one of the Trang islands rising from the Andaman Sea in Thailand's deep south. Our yacht bobs just above a shipwreck by the entrance to Tham Morakot (emerald cave).
We are surrounded by boats full of tourists, so we anchor while they're ferried in and out of the cave's mouth on rigid inflatables.
I drop into the warm glassy water for a swim, nipped and tickled by hungry butterfly fish as my partner, seeks amusement in throwing crumbs around me. We eat a late lunch of coconut prawns, have drinks, and wait. As the sun sinks and hot afternoon acquiesces to balmy evening, the last of the boats make their way home, leaving us alone.
We hop into our inflatable and, entering the cavernous passage, cut the outboard - this is a journey best made silently, floating through the darkness: the tunnel's upper chambers are home to scores of bats. It's an eerie route, several metres twisting and turning in pitch-blackness, echoes sounding from our whispers and dripping stalactites. It's beginning to unnerve me, but as my eyes adjust to the dark and make out a glimmer of light, we follow one final bend and emerge from the pool in the cave.
The breathtaking beauty of what confronts leaves us stunned: an enclosed sandy beach, surrounded by immense tree-covered cliffs opening to a fiery sky. There's something otherworldly about this desolate place and we stand silently, listening to birdsong, crickets, and rustling in the trees.
The branches reveal first one, two, then three monkeys, a mother with baby clinging, leaping from tree to tree and scaling heights that terrify.
The feeling of wonder invoked by such a scene is equalled only by our sense of pride at having sailed here from Phuket alone, a journey counted not in nautical miles covered, or hours taken, but measured in growing confidence.
We had spent our first week in Thailand learning navigation on a day skipper course before Sunsail would trust us to charter the yacht we'd booked for the second week.
As our instructor, Guy, had pointed out, a week on the boat in the marina wouldn't be much fun. But happily, his intelligent instruction had finally secured my grasp of navigation - not an easy task given that I was confused even by the simple fact that latitude and longitude are measured in degrees and minutes, wondering at some unfathomable connection between temperature, distance and time. Now, standing in Tham Morakot, I felt I'd voyaged far.
There's a good balance of teaching and sightseeing on Sunsail courses. During our training week we'd explored the hauntingly beautiful Phang-nga Bay and Krabi province - a landscape more dramatic than any I've seen, where limestone towers jut from the ocean in weird formations like ancient twisted rock serpents.
Unable, those first nights, to contain my excitement at the beauty of our surroundings, I swam in the shadow of these deformed silhouettes under the stars, the ocean twinkling with phosphorescence.
Days began with breakfast in the cockpit, as we stared sleepily at whichever idyllic spot we were anchored in, before sailing on to some equally glorious place. We explored ancient Hongs - 'room' islands - paddling into their eroded hearts to find tranquil watery spaces that were not quite sea, yet no longer land. At times it was far too beautiful to concentrate, and I almost crashed the boat as eagles soared overhead and monitor lizards lazily swam by jagged cliffs at the water's edge. Required to plan a night passage, we reluctantly began plotting lines when someone pointed to dolphins a few feet away. How could anyone study in such an environment? Guy relented, indulging us for a while before insisting that we get back to work.
He was right: we needed to learn, and several times during our week alone, I silently thanked him. For in this region, you're really alone - a far cry from the Mediterranean, where yachts pass regularly. Chart-plotting during our journey south to Ko Kradan, I calculated there would be no other boats in sight - a thought as gratifying as it was intimidating.
I had worried that being on the water would deprive us of experience of the country and its people, but most activity was focused around the bays we visited with raging hunger to consume fragrant tom yum goong and pad thai.
Anchoring off Ko Lanta, inhabited by many of the Andaman coast's 5000 Chao Ley (sea gypsies), we spotted a boat with a man and three generations of women, screened from the sun by multiple bright layers, as they weaved nets and fished.
We approached in our dinghy, after fish and photos. They received us with tolerance and bewilderment, their incredulity increasing and smiles widening with the realisation that we wanted to buy the prawns they used as bait, to eat ourselves. These they gave freely, refusing my baht, as they laughed good-naturedly, waving at the crazy farang who eat fish food.
As idyllic as it was, it was not perfect. The sea is littered in areas and it was heartbreaking to spotplastic bags shortly after seeing a shy green turtle (their numbers are in rapid decline - they choke on bags mistaken for jellyfish).
While Sunsail provides strict pilotage guidelines, other tour operators' boats sped over coral reefs, depositing both snorkellers and oil on the water, some anchoring right in the reefs. There's been much talk in Thailand about sustainability, and some effort appears to have been made, with the creation of marine parks and the introduction of artificial reefs.
But there are no markers in evidence around the natural reefs, no limits on speed or route.
Considering that the Thai people are dependent on tourism and felt the financial impact of the tsunami terribly, it's gratifying, once there, to contribute to the economy but it's difficult to feel smug: the privilege of worrying about wildlife and the future seems absurd while thousands of people are preoccupied simply with surviving.
As we sail into Phi Phi Don, it is sobering to realise we are travelling the path the wave took in 2004. These bays were some of the worst hit in the country. Evidence of that day is everywhere: from the shifted seabed that renders charts unreliable, to the moving tributes in restaurant menus to staff no longer there. On Phi Phi Don, there's a row of restaurants, rebuilt after the tsunami and recently burned to the ground. We saw the owners opposite the charred remains of their buildings, serving food from makeshift stalls, cooking, selling, saving, staring all day, not at what they had lost, but at what they would rebuild, displaying a humbling resilience.
When it came time to lift anchor and leave Phi Phi Don, we did so feeling somewhat philosophical. An absence of wind on the last afternoon meant our progress back towards Phuket was slow and wonderfully lazy, which suited our mood.
And this is the enduring appeal of a sailing trip - whether you're racing with the wind, your boat heeling in a choppy sea, or meandering on a flat and velvety ocean, there's a timeless quality to a journey made using just wind and tides that makes it feel so much longer than a day, a week, a fortnight. Experiencing the world at an average rate of five knots allows you to really think about the places you're journeying through, and in this painfully beautiful region there is much to ponder.
- The Observer
