We’d heard the stories—the infamous crabs. Streets, buildings, and even the ocean turning into a sea of bright red, pushing locals to their limits, trapping them indoors as millions surge past. Captivated and obsessed, we set our sights on this tiny speck in the Indian Ocean. But getting there wasn’t easy, as heavy planning, local coordination and faith in the notoriously unpredictable flights were essential to our success. Undeterred, we booked our flights five months in advance, timing them perfectly with the peak of red crab spawning season—the wet, moody, and overcast time of year that triggers one of nature’s most vivid migrations.
By the time we finally made our way to Christmas Island, via the Cocos (Keeling) Islands, we were exhausted. The romanticism of expedition life often hides a harsher reality—juggling the demands of consulting clients, the strain of 18 months spent in constant proximity, and the endless logistical hurdles of life lived as nomads. Our excitement was paired with fatigue, and we were nearing our limits both mentally and physically.
There have been several times during this expedition when we’ve each considered quitting. The self-funded nature of our expedition grants us an enormous amount of privilege in plotting our own course. But that certainly comes with trade-offs. Creative freedom and control demands relentless work. While none of us are strangers to juggling these kinds of responsibilities, the workload at times has become untenable. Pairing this with all-day field sessions, finding balance is hard—at times, it’s nonexistent.
On the surface, life at the edges might look like a dream vacation, but the reality couldn’t be further from that. That’s also part of the reason I love it. We aren’t visiting tourist hotspots, sipping cocktails at sunset, or chasing after the same sights everyone else is here to see. We’re here for the positive outlier stories—the ones that slip under the radar. While the red crab migration has been extensively documented and studied for decades, we were looking ahead.
Two days before departure, we were in Perth, our main home base in the Eastern Hemisphere. Calls from our partners on the ground were coming in from every direction, all with the same grim warning: there was a good chance the flights wouldn’t take off. Two low-pressure systems were barreling toward the Cocos Islands, expected to hit on the day of our departure. The storms could either swell into something catastrophic or veer off course, leaving us in the clear. It would come down to a gamble, decided on the day of. And a gamble we accepted.
We packed our bags, headed to the airport, and waited for our call—either granting us passage or ending our expedition before it even began. This uncertainty is par for the course when traveling to remote islands like these. Flights are notoriously unreliable, and with such limited infrastructure, there’s no room for error. At Cocos, planes land without the aid of control towers, meaning the pilot must have full visibility of the tarmac. If low-pressure clouds or fog obscure the runway, the flight simply won’t happen.
Our gamble paid off. And over the next days on Cocos and Home Islands, we immersed ourselves in the community. We spent time with Cocos Malay leaders, learning about their efforts to preserve their cultural heritage from fading into history. We dove with mantas for hours, marveling at their intricate mating rituals and mesmerizing “trains”—a rare sight in the rainy season. We explored West Island, the primary hub of the Cocos archipelago, and got devoured by mosquitoes as we drove through the remnants of old palm plantations that once fueled the local economy. Despite our typically high-strung nature as documentarians focused on the natural world’s precarious state, we soaked in the island vibes as best we could.
What struck us most was the community’s deep sense of trust. It felt like stepping back in time to Australia’s 1950s or 60s. On West Island, life seemed frozen in its quarantine-era heyday when the government used it as a hub for processing animals. Doors were left open, car keys sat in their ignitions, bartenders remembered every patron’s order, and all the while, everyone seemed genuinely curious about us simply because we were “new.” It was quiet, kind, and disarmingly simple. But the best part was the water. Crystal clear with 30-40 meters of visibility.
In comparison to Cocos Islands, Christmas Island felt considerably more “fast-paced.” Our plane landing this time was met with red crabs lining the tarmac, their fate sealed if they wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time. The smell of crushed crabs was unforgettable—pungent and earthy, an aroma that lingered in the air and in our noses.
Flying in, we were in awe of the striking cliffs that give Christmas Island its raw, rugged feel. Where Cocos Islands had been idyllic and serene, Christmas Island felt like stepping into a scene from Jurassic Park. Golden bosuns, one of the island’s most famous birds, soared gracefully over the cliffs. Their yellow and gold plumage popped against a backdrop of endless green and blue, surrounded by a wild, untamed ocean.
Although we dodged the storms, the water conditions were formidable—and the harsh waves had us questioning how much diving we’d actually be able to do. On land, the red crabs moved like an army, crawling across every surface and over our feet as we walked. Curious, I tried to grab one for a closer look but quickly realized they were faster than they looked. Once I finally got one, it became clear to me why these creatures are so highly protected and cherished.
Our accommodations sat right on the ocean, with sweeping views of colossal waves crashing ashore. Diving on that side of the island was out of the question, but the far less explored, rarely visited side was open to us—making us the first divers in the area in a long time. No waves, no current, and pristine conditions with 30-40 meters of visibility. There, we found some of the most healthy coral we’d ever seen, stretching what felt like endlessly across the ocean floor.
Getting to these dive sites was an adventure in itself. To board the boat, we had to drive to Ethel Beach boat ramp, which naturally, was blanketed by crabs. There, we unloaded the van, set up our gear, and swam it out to the boat anchored 10-12 meters offshore. After the dive, the process played out in reverse—swim the gear back in, lug it up the crab-covered ramp, and load it back into the van. The effort was well worth it, adding an element of novelty, a kind that Christmas Island seems to serve up in spades.
The more you explored—especially through the open jungle, where red crabs serve as “gardeners” clearing the forest floor—the deeper the enchantment grew. Life was everywhere, crawling, scuttling, and thriving. And while the iconic red crabs were captivating, they weren’t the only stars of this multi-layered ecosystem. The light blue crabs near the Dales and the RAMSAR wetland area were skittish and slightly harder to spot, yet they revealed themselves the deeper we ventured.
Then there were the colossal coconut crabs—their name was not just hyperbole. These were the largest we’d seen anywhere across the Indian Ocean, even after visiting Vanuatu, the Solomon Islands, and Zanzibar. Nothing came close. But the creatures that stole our hearts were Abbott's boobies. With their whimsical eyes perched atop their beaks and their silky white or brown bodies (depending on their age). Their brown, webbed feet and playful demeanor added a goofy charm, especially as they swarmed us at the surface after every dive. They were the true heroes of the skies here.
We packed our days with back-to-back dives. We encountered silky sharks and a giant bait ball, rays and white-tips. We explored Christmas Island from every angle—land to sea, top to bottom. We circled the island by car, met with locals, collaborated with National Park and Marine Park teams, and dove deep into the island’s unique identity as a natural wonderland juxtaposed with a working mine site perched on a seamount.
The tiny settlement coexists with this industrial behemoth, creating a striking and bizarre duality. Everyone we met spoke openly about the tension between these two worlds—restoration versus extraction—and the delicate balance they strive to maintain. Opinions varied, but a common thread emerged: acceptance.
The future of Christmas Island feels precarious, especially once the mine’s lease expires in ten years. With no steady supply chain—even vegetables in the markets are rare due to frequent disruptions in cargo flights and shipping—it’s hard to imagine tourism alone sustaining the island. Could it transform into a full wildlife reserve? Can it be restored after decades of extraction? Locals believe it’s possible, though the path remains unclear.
Eventually, our luck with weather on the island came to an abrupt end. Storms brewed, clouds gathered, and an unsettling and unseasonable fog set in. The Christmas holiday itself was just days away, and the island was preparing for another monumental event: a massive second spawning and migration, expected to peak on the holiday. Hundreds of thousands of baby crabs would swarm from the sea to begin their lives in the jungle, devouring the scrub as they went. We sadly would be departing just three days shy of witnessing one of the largest migrations ever recorded.
But after days of eating boxed pasta and tomato paste (the only food available at their remote markets), we found ourselves yearning for a proper meal … but still not quite ready to leave entirely. Before departing, we joined our local friends for a beach cleanup on a remote, nearly inaccessible stretch of coastline. We scaled a muddy waterfall using a rope and arrived at what, from a distance, looked like an untouched paradise. But up close, this proved to be more of an illusion than the reality.
Amidst the scurrying red, blue, and iridescent black rock crabs (ones we hadn’t yet encountered,) the beach was riddled with trash. Rubber flip-flops dominated the scene, alongside a deluge of macro and micro marine debris coming from the north. And in just an hour, we collected over 1,000 pieces of garbage. Christmas Island, known as a collection point for trash carried by ocean currents from Indonesia, had lived up to its reputation.
This paradox isn’t unique to Christmas Island. Time and again, we’ve seen the same pattern across the islands we’ve explored. Where there’s beauty, there’s depletion. Where there are resources, there’s extraction. Where habitats thrive, people arrive—to admire, exploit, or both. It’s the way the world works, and whether we like it or not, we’re all contributors to this dynamic.
As we boarded the plane, grateful to be heading home in time for Christmas and a two-week detox from life on the edges, we found ourselves reflecting on the concept of “contribution.” We don’t have to be climate perfect, and contributions don’t have to be of large scale to make an impact, but we should be consistently making them. From small acts, like regular beach cleanups, to significant career shifts into conservation or climate, every effort counts in charting a better future.
And so, as we continue on our journey, we’re committed even more than ever to exploration. But not in its traditional sense. Rather, exploration to understand how we actively protecting vulnerable spaces and the extraordinary life that calls them home, like this Jurassic island, found steeped in the clouds.
To be continued ….
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