“Where are Natuna and Sedanau?” That’s the question I hear most after this trip. The Natuna Islands lie at the northern edge of Indonesia, between Peninsular Malaysia and Borneo, almost like a child that has wandered away from the rest of the country. Sedanau is one of these islands.
Dian greeted us at Batam airport with quiet excitement. For some of my teammates, it was a reunion—they had first met him during a trip to Natuna in 2024 and were now fulfilling their promise to visit his hometown, Sedanau. From Batam, we flew to Ranai, the main island of Natuna, then continued by ferry to Sedanau. Along the way, Dian shared stories of his hometown, and my curiosity grew about this distant fishing island I could barely find online.
Stepping onto Sedanau, the pace of everything softened. There was no rush, no noise, only the steady rhythm of daily life by the water. Brightly painted stilt houses stood over the sea, alongside small family-run shops, local eateries, and boats gently tied along the shore. The island felt remote, yet not lacking.
In a place where tourism has barely taken root, our visit felt less like passing through and more like being received. Curious glances followed us as we explored, but they were never distant, often accompanied by warm smiles, small waves, or quiet greetings.
The sea is central to life in Sedanau. Fishing is both a tradition and a livelihood, passed down through generations. Like many locals, Zulkifli and Rustampuri were born into fishing families, learning the necessary skills and knowledge from a young age.
Before each trip, they decide which fish to target and prepare accordingly. Tuna, for example, requires ice storage, while live fish such as grouper must be kept in water tanks. Larger fish are sold directly to fish carrier vessels that distribute the catch elsewhere, while smaller ones are sold to keramba families. One such farm belongs to Syahriadi, Dian’s uncle, who raises them in netted enclosures set in the water beside his stilt house until they reach market size.
At his keramba, Syahriadi showed us a few baby Napoleon fish, moving slowly in the water. Among the fishermen, these are the most prized catch, so valuable that landing one is like discovering a small treasure. “If we manage to catch one, we’re very happy,” they told us. But the Napoleon fish are highly sensitive and clever, nibbling cautiously and often avoiding bait altogether.
As they steered the boat, Zulkifli and Rustampuri spoke about how they locate their position, read the tides, and watch for changes in the water. Yet beneath their matter-of-fact tone was a reality that needed little emphasis: fishing offshore is never without risk.
In the past, before radios and GPS, losing direction at sea was not uncommon. They recalled a time when their boat drifted far into open waters after the engine broke down—more than a hundred miles from land, with nothing but water in every direction. There was little they could do but wait.
When asked what they would do if they ran out of food with no way to call for help, their answer was calm: “It is all written by God. If that is how we are meant to die, we accept it. Nature is taking us back.”
Out at sea, control is limited. What remains is trust: in experience, in nature, and in something beyond themselves. It is through this quiet confrontation with uncertainty that their respect for the sea and their identity as fishermen take shape.
Yet not every life here follows the same tide.
Dian’s grandfather was a fisherman and boat builder, carrying on a family tradition tied to the sea. Dian’s father took a different path, becoming a teacher and opening doors for Dian to explore life beyond the island. Dian spent over a year working in Bali, one of Indonesia’s most popular tourist destinations, where he saw the potential of tourism. Yet every step he took brought him back to Sedanau, ready to apply what he had learned to support his community.
For Dian, this is not just ambition but a way of giving back. As the eldest son, he takes responsibility for supporting his younger siblings, ensuring they can pursue opportunities that help them flourish. When we visited his home, he showed us a cabinet filled with his siblings’ awards, speaking with quiet pride and genuine happiness at their achievements.
This same sense of care extends beyond his family to Sedanau itself. What he learns elsewhere, he hopes to bring home. In his own way, he has already begun experimenting—once even creating a Google advertisement for this island titled “The Heart of the Ocean.” Although the ad is no longer active, it was his first attempt to introduce his hometown to a wider world.
Simple life, warm smiles, and the rhythm of Sedanau
In many places, development comes at the cost of tradition. In Sedanau, it feels less like a choice and more like a balance still being shaped. Dian hopes to open the island to the world through education, exposure, and small efforts to share Sedanau beyond its shores. Yet he is clear that fishing is not just a livelihood, but part of the island’s identity.
The fishermen, in their own way, believe the same. They continue to pass down knowledge of the sea to their children, while allowing them to choose their own paths. What remains unchanged is a deep sense of where they come from: a respect for the sea and the community that sustains it.
I asked Dian what makes Sedanau special. He paused, then smiled: “The island is beautiful, for sure. But what makes it truly beautiful is the people. The people are kind.” In that simple truth, I felt the island’s balance between tradition and change, between life by the sea and the pull of the wider world.
Watching Sedanau unfold, I was left with a quiet question: could it follow the path of places like Bali, opening itself to the wider world, while keeping its soul intact? Or would that very process begin to change what makes it unique? Either way, Sedanau is defined not by its distance from the world, but by how firmly it holds onto what the world is slowly losing: identity, community, and a way of life deeply connected to both people and nature.
