The Martian Rave at Sea

Somewhere between Jakarta and Nongsa Point in Indonesia, about 100 miles offshore and deep into the witching hour—around 0300, sleep-deprived and alone—I saw them. Hundreds of eerie green lights glowing on the horizon, like the opening act of a Martian rave. They started off my starboard side, then multiplied until they wrapped around my bow like a slow-motion invasion. Not one moved. Not a blip on radar. Just a silent, glowing armada materializing out of the darkness, as if the ocean had decided to host an alien light show and forgot to send me the memo.

I checked Navionics. Nothing. Chart plotter? Nada. Paper chart? Ghost town. Still nothing. And no Starlink at the time. Here I am facing what appeared to be a roadblock of land in front of me. My first thought? Aliens. My second thought? Really inconsiderate aliens blocking my path!  👽😂

Anyone who’s sailed through Southeast Asia knows the seas are never truly “open.” From the Java Sea up to the Andamans, FADs, benangs, and fishing boats of every size dot the water—barely visible, creatively lit if at all. Pretty much none of it appears on radar or AIS, or seems to possess a VHF radio.  Not to mention the debris—logs, stray nets, and lines scattered everywhere. And the cosmic joke of it all? No matter which heading you’re on, they always seem to be squarely off your bow, like the ocean’s personal prank. 😂 This is why a lot of cruisers stick to daylight hops, which is all well and good if you have a lifetime to explore, moving at 60 to 80 miles a day. I’m no daredevil seeking the thrill of running an obstacle course at night, but I also don’t have until the end of time, so I creep along, eyes wide, waiting for the next floating surprise to emerge from the dark.

The “alien armada” I stumbled into turned out to be squid fishermen. They work from wooden boats and rig them with rows of high-powered LEDs—enough to make a Vegas nightclub jealous. Offshore, in the distance, they don’t appear to move in the swell—they just hover, like neon constellations hanging just above the sea. Up close, it’s dazzling: the water beneath the hulls glows an unearthly jade as the light penetrates deep into the black.

Why green? Because squid are reckless little party animals. The spectrum of green light penetrates seawater farther than other colors, and it triggers squid to rise toward the surface. Maybe it mimics the way moonlight hits the ocean, or maybe they just can’t resist a good rave. Whatever the reason, it works. The crews drop nets and haul them twice a night. No chatter on VHF, no engine rumble once they’re set—just a silent rave where the squid are the only ones dancing.

Threading through them is safe but eerie. They’re anchored and spaced just far enough apart to tempt you into thinking you can slip between, but close enough to keep you guessing whether you’re about to foul a net or cut across someone’s livelihood. The first time I saw them, I slowed to a crawl, half expecting one of the boats to power up and chase me off. But they don’t care. They go about their business, indifferent to yachtsmen picking their way through. 

All in all, once I made it through, I just added another bizarre entry to my captain’s log and pushed forward—chalk it up as yet another surreal night in Southeast Asia. A year and a half sailing through Indonesia, Malaysia, and Thailand meant plenty more of those—five or six dives under the hull to cut debris from the prop, a kelp cutter that only sometimes helped, and a mask and dive knife always hanging from the binnacle just in case. That’s the story. I moved on. Fair winds my friends!

Days Sober: 2,031