Most parents of a 17-year-old girl will recognise the delicate balance of this stage of young adulthood, moments of real closeness between mother and daughter sitting alongside a growing need for independence, inevitable parental embarrassment and the odd slammed door thrown in for good measure. As a mum of three girls, I know it’s a time that feels intense in the moment, yet passes all too quickly, and with my youngest I found myself wanting to carve out space that was just ours, away from the usual distractions of daily life, before she was all too grown up.
So when the opportunity arose to join a wellbeing Rascal Voyage through Raja Ampat, it felt like more than just a trip. It felt like a chance to step outside our normal rhythm and, perhaps, to even reconnect.
We hadn’t even stepped on board when it began, this expedition was already carrying a different kind of energy.
We were met at the port in Sorong by Yeray Moreno, who would quietly shape the week ahead. Calm, intuitive and completely unflappable, he has a way of guiding without ever making it feel like guidance, gently steering each day with an ease that meant everything simply unfolded as it should.
As we approached the floating villa, the crew were already lined up, arms raised high, cheering us in with wide, genuine smiles. Not rehearsed, not overdone, but as though they were welcoming old friends back on board, and it set the tone immediately for the week ahead. Esme squeezed my hand as we climbed up the steps (something she had not done since her hand was half the size) and in that moment we both felt the first shift, whatever we had brought with us, the noise, the endless lists, my unanswered emails, and even our quiet relief at not being seated together on the final flight, it all began to loosen its grip.
Once on board, one of the first things the crew ask you to do is remove your shoes, and with that small action came the second unexpected shift. Everything immediately felt lighter. Phones were forgotten in bags as the gentle rhythm of the boat took over and we moved out into open water. Not long after, out at sea, another guest spotted a pod of dolphins. I had told Esme this trip would be incredible, but to have that within the first moments of the voyage was nothing short of spectacular.
That first afternoon set the tone in a way I don’t think either of us fully appreciated at the time. We swam in the blue river at Kali Biru, the water so clear it almost didn’t feel real, the jungle closing in around us, everything softening by light and stillness. We floated side by side and, slightly self-consciously at first, set intentions for the week ahead. Nothing complicated, just a shared agreement to slow down, to be present, to notice what was right in front of us. It was incredible.
From there, the days took on their own slow rhythm, shaped by the wellbeing focus and the presence of our onboard yoga and freediving instructor, Jane, who guided us throughout. Mornings began on the top deck with yoga as the sun lifted, the sea still and endless around us, not another boat in sight.
I’m not a huge yoga bunny ordinarily, but this experience shifted something in me. I began to recognise how different I felt after each session, lighter, clearer, more present, and gradually gave into the deeply powerful somatic element that has stayed with me since. Things I hadn’t quite made space for before felt easier to face and, somehow, to let go of on board Rascal. It became less about the shapes you make and more about how you feel within them as the week went on, a gentle return to the body, creating space in a way that felt both subtle and unexpectedly powerful.
The water, of course, is what draws you here, but it’s the way it reveals itself that makes it unforgettable. Raja Ampat doesn’t overwhelm you all at once, it unfolds slowly. A reef here teaming with fish, a current there, each moment building on the last. At first, it’s the incredible colour and the sheer volume of life that takes your breath away, clouds of fish moving as one, coral in every possible shape and shade. And then, just when you think you’ve understood it, another shift.
We were swimming quietly when the manta first appeared, gliding just beneath us with a kind of ancient calm that stopped everything. Esme squeezed my hand in slight trepidation, but there was nothing worrying about it, no sudden rush, just this enormous, effortless presence moving through the water as if it had all the time in the world - in that moment nothing else existed – just her and I and the underwater quiet. It felt almost prehistoric, as though we had slipped into a different time entirely.
Later that same day we found ourselves on a beach where baby blacktip sharks traced slow patterns through the shallows – Esme waded straight in, laughing, completely at ease, watching them circle her legs, a world away from last year when I could barely persuade her to snorkel. I remember thinking, quite simply, what young adult gets to experience this? Not in a curated way, but like this, barefoot and part of it - and somehow, something about the Rascal way holds itself quietly removes any teen concerns around the new or unknown, allowing moments like this to just become.
Freediving became another quiet thread through the week. Not something to master, but something to feel, learning to breathe differently, to let go rather than push, to trust the body in a way we rarely allow ourselves to. There was something beautifully simple about it, and I saw that reflected in Esme.
Later, sitting on the beach, she found a tiny crab and became completely absorbed, letting it move across her hands just as she used to when she was younger. It stopped me again in that moment, that quiet sense of time folding back on itself.
Life on board found its own rhythm without needing to be thought about too much. We moved easily between boat and shore, stepping off onto quiet stretches of sand for yoga with nothing but sea and sky around us, and gathering again later for cocktails and dinners under the stars that felt incredibly special.
One evening slipped into music and dancing with live sing-alongs on the beach, limbo in the sand, everyone a little sun-soaked and relaxed, fine wine and laughter carrying out across the water. It wasn’t planned, just one of those moments that unfolds naturally with Rascal and ends up staying with you.
But what stayed with me just as much were the quieter, grounding moments. Sitting with a village elder as he spoke about the balance they have chosen to maintain between tourism and preservation. On one island, he explained, no one fishes at all. The reef is protected, divers come, and each dive contributes directly to the community. It’s a long-term decision, rooted in care rather than extraction, and hearing it explained so simply felt quietly powerful.
We spent time with school children too, sharing what we could in the classroom but learning far more in return. It wasn’t structured, more a spontaneous and genuine exchange, curiosity meeting curiosity. It reminded me that this is not just a place of beauty, but a place of people making thoughtful decisions about their future. Each child so bright and full of hope.
And then, as if the week needed a final moment to hold it all together, the last night brought a full moon eclipse. We stood on deck watching the light shift in silence. What had begun as a group of strangers had quietly become something much closer, friendships formed without effort. The sky darkened and then slowly returned, the boat completely still around us. No music, no chatter, just a shared awareness of being exactly where we were.
On our final morning, without overthinking it, we climbed to the top deck and jumped into the sea together, a simple, joyful act, but somehow the perfect way to close it. One last shared moment in water that had given us so much over those days.
It would be easy to describe Raja Ampat in superlatives, and it would deserve every one of them, but for me what lingers isn’t just the scale or the beauty, it’s the smaller shifts. The space to reconnect, not just with a place, but with my daughter. The way time stretched and softened. The quiet return to something more instinctive, more present.
And perhaps it all started with that welcome, arms raised, smiles wide, as though we were simply coming back to somewhere we already belonged.