In 2001, long before smartphones and GPS tracks turned rivers into thin blue lines on screens, we set out onto the Mekong aboard a 60-foot cruiser with little more than paper charts, local knowledge, and curiosity to guide us.
The boat was solid and sun-bleached, her diesel engines thudding steadily as we eased away from the bank at first light. The Mekong was wide and patient that morning, a slow-moving highway of brown water carrying driftwood, fishing nets, and the reflections of distant palms. Villages woke along the shore as we passed—smoke from cooking fires curling into the cool air, children waving, monks in saffron robes moving silently between houses on stilts.
Days fell into a gentle rhythm. We cruised by daylight, always watching the water for shifting sandbars and submerged logs. The river changed constantly—broad and calm one moment, narrowing into faster channels the next. At times the current pushed hard against the hull, reminding us that this river rose in the mountains of Tibet and had no intention of being tamed by a single boat.
Every stop felt like stepping into another world. We tied up where we could—sometimes to a rickety jetty, sometimes simply nudging the bow into a muddy bank. Fishermen would approach in long, narrow boats, curious about the cruiser and its foreign lines. Smiles came easily, conversations carried by gestures, laughter, and the occasional shared cigarette. Fresh fish, sticky rice, and stories were traded without needing much language at all.
Nights were the most memorable. Anchored mid-stream or tucked into a quiet bend, the cruiser became a small island of light on a vast, dark river. The sky stretched endlessly overhead, crowded with stars unspoiled by city glow. The sounds of the Mekong filled the darkness—water slapping gently against the hull, insects singing, the distant thud of drums or music drifting from unseen villages.
There was an edge of uncertainty to the journey that made it feel alive. In 2001, the Mekong was still largely unexplored by pleasure craft of that size. Fuel stops required planning and trust. Navigation depended on reading the river itself—its color, its flow, the way birds skimmed low over shallows. Each day brought small challenges and quiet victories.
By the time we turned back, the boat carried more than just miles in her wake. She held the memory of a river that felt ancient and generous, unpredictable and kind. Exploring the Mekong on a 60-foot cruiser was not about conquering distance, but about slowing down enough to let the river reveal itself—bend by bend, village by village, star-filled night by star-filled night.