Are you sure we are still in the Philippines?” I ask my husband, Steve, as a long purple tongue twists around the branch I am holding, elegantly stripping it of leaves.
“It doesn’t make sense, does it?” he replies quietly, so as not to disturb the diners.
“Giraffes roaming around freely on an island in the Philippines doesn’t make any sense at all.” I giggle, daring to reach up to touch the snout that is attached to the long purple tongue. “But it’s amazing.”
More than 7,000 islands make up the Philippines, so choosing where to sail can be overwhelming. We decided to explore the Calamian Islands, 200 nautical miles southwest of Manila, for several reasons—the chance to hand-feed giraffes being one of them. This smattering of small islands offers boaters a little bit of everything. Most important, there are plenty of anchorages with protection from the weather. In a region known for the frequency and ferocity of storms, a safe place to hide is on every sailor’s mind.
Then-President Ferdinand Marcos brought the giraffes to Calauit Island, along with a collection of African animals, in the 1970s. Unfortunately, more than 250 indigenous families were evicted from the island, and only the giraffes and zebras survived. Now known as the Calauit wildlife sanctuary, it is basic and severely underfunded, but there is a constant stream of visitors.
Just next door to Calauit is Busuanga, the largest island and the tourist hub of the area. We sail down the southern coast of Busuanga, weaving our way among bamboo fishing floats, pearl farms, and reefs. The charting in the Philippines is fairly accurate, but navigational aids are rare. Local fish-aggregating devices and aqua-farming setups move with the seasons and are often abandoned when damaged by a storm or if the money runs out. Sailing here demands eyes on the horizon, and navigating at night is a fool’s mission.
We pull into the aptly named Pearl Bay after winding our way through the maze of pearl floats that line the entrance. Pearl Bay has a large inner harbor where a river meets the sea, and a long outer deepwater bay where Sunset Moorings (which can be reached at mail@sunsetmoorings.com) is located. Andy Alford, a British sailor who has called Pearl Bay home since 2017, put down 12 moorings suitable for vessels up to 50 feet and is preparing to add several more. He and his partner, Mel, welcome visitors into the clubhouse that he built onshore and is happy to share his wealth of local knowledge. A sweetwater source at the head of the bay flows fast and freely, and buses pass by daily on their long drive into town. It is a beautiful, quiet spot to stop.
The bay is also home to three small resorts that welcome visiting yachts with various price points and amenities. By far the most popular is El Faro, which is Spanish for “lighthouse.” Perched on top of a steep hill overlooking the bay, its sunset views are as breathtaking as the hike up. The staff is friendly, the beer is always cold, and the pool is refreshing on a hot, sticky afternoon.
With our Newport 41, Kate, on a mooring, good company and luxuries to enjoy ashore, we stay in Pearl Bay longer than planned. But the fridge is almost empty, and we finally have enough wind to sail, so it is time to get moving. We trade the tranquility of Pearl Bay for the chaos of Coron town, our last stop on Busuanga.
Coron town is a grid of cramped streets set back from the dusty waterfront. The harbor—a constant wash of tourist boats, interisland ferries and cargo ships—is not attractive, so we anchor just north of town. That means a wet dinghy ride when the wind is up, but we happily trade 10 minutes of discomfort for a solid night’s sleep.
Busy with backpackers, Coron offers three important things to passing yachts: laundry, ATMs and provisions. With cafes, restaurants and nighttime food stalls lining every street, we regularly kick back with a tasty plate and a cold drink, watching the traffic and tourists.
A low-pressure system is forecast to blow through the area, so Steve and I decide to backtrack to Port Luyucan just north of town to hide. The narrow entrance, a sticky mud bottom, and near-360-degree protection from the wind prove a comfortable combination to sit out the 25 to 30 knots and torrential rains for a few days. Our only company is a few friendly, waterlogged local fishermen and the roosters ashore.
When the skies clear, we sail south and stop at Dataytayan Island, about 30 nautical miles away. On the charts, it looks much the same as all the other islands in the area: a small tuft of palm trees, a coral reef and white sand. The only difference is that it’s uninhabited, a rarity in a country with a population over 110 million people. We are careful to avoid the garden of coral when we throw the anchor, with the bottom clearly visible in more than 30 feet of water.
For days, the bay is mirror-calm thanks to the long, thin island shielding it from the northeast winds. The sound of palm trees rustling in the evening breeze is a nice reprieve from the ever-present barking dogs and ear-splitting karaoke that has been our soundtrack of late. We see sails on the horizon several times, but I am secretly relieved that no one pulls into our anchorage. I don’t want to share.
One afternoon, we dinghy to the opposite end of the island. The turquoise waters, white-sand beach and shifting sandbar make it a popular stop for tour boats, but we brave the hoards, pay the landing fee, and settle down on our towels to soak up a little sun. We anchor the dinghy in the shallows and watch as tourists pose beside it. One man brazenly crawls into the dinghy and sits to have his photo taken, as if our little plastic boat were his very own pirate yacht.
Dataytayan turns out to be my favorite island—not only in the Calamian group, but maybe in all the Philippines. However, when the wind clocks around and freshens, the building swell wraps around the end of the island, and our pristine bay turns uncomfortable. We make a beeline to Linapacan, the last island in the Calamian group.
The sea state becomes short and sharp. The wind is aft beam, and we carry just the headsail but average 6.5 knots. We pull in behind the long reef in front of San Miguel and find good holding in 13 feet of water with a sandy floor. A moderate current runs through the anchorage, so to avoid being held wind against swell, we set a stern anchor too.
The next day, the skies are blue, but the local coast guard officer tells us that a small-craft advisory is in effect, and we can’t leave until it is lifted. We snorkel the deepwater pass close to the anchorage several times, marveling at the abundance of feather stars, barrel sponges and healthy coral fans that dance in the current. We spot horseshoe crabs in the shallows, watch long-tailed macaques on the beach, and unsuccessfully try to catch the gang of squid that hangs out on our anchor chain.
With no phone coverage in the harbor, we head ashore to check emails and the weather using the Wi-Fi at a little store just down from the main jetty. We dock the dinghy close to the where the island kids gather for their swimming lessons, their “lap pool” being two bamboo poles anchored in the sea with lines tied between them to mark the lanes. Their enthusiasm is unhampered by the blustery conditions.
We spend an unplanned week hiding in this small but comfortable harbor until the weather finally eases, and we sail to the island of Palawan, where we will clear out with officials before heading to Malaysia. The Calamian Islands—overlooked by many sailors—is now on my top-10 favorite-destination list.
Heather Francis is originally from Nova Scotia, Canada. She and her Aussie husband, Steve, have been living and sailing on their 1973 Newport 41, Kate, since 2008. They’re currently in Borneo, Malaysia. Follow their adventures at yachtkate.com.
