The diesel engine cuts and the hull shudders against the concrete pier at Miaozihu. Salt spray hits my face before I even shoulder my pack. Ahead, the water is the color of a bruised sapphire—startling after the tea-brown channels around Zhoushan proper. No silt from the Yangtze reaches this far east. That clarity is the whole reason I came, and why the islands feel like a secret the mainland hasn’t fully claimed yet. ## Catching the Boat from Shenjiamen There is no online booking system, no QR code to scan the night before. You show up at the Shenjiamen ferry terminal—tucked just past the row of seafood restaurants lining the harbor, a left turn if you’re facing the water—and you queue. In the shoulder seasons of spring and autumn, arriving thirty minutes before the first sailing usually secures a seat. During the summer holiday rush or the weeks surrounding the Mid-Autumn Festival, I’ve seen the line snake back toward the bus station before dawn. The ticket window opens roughly two hours before departure; cash is king, though WeChat Pay works if the signal holds. The fast boat takes about ninety minutes to cross the open stretch to Miaozihu. Seats are unassigned. Grab a spot on the starboard side upper deck for the best view of the archipelago unfolding—rocky spines, whitewashed villages, the occasional fishing fleet hauling nets. If the swell picks up, the ride turns into a proper rollercoaster. I keep a plastic bag in my pocket just in case, and I avoid the heavy braised pork belly breakfast the harbor restaurants push; a steamed bun and hot tea sit better. ## The Transfer Shuffle at Miaozihu Miaozihu is not the destination; it’s the switchyard. The big ferry rafts up alongside a flotilla of smaller, open-deck launches—locals call them “xiaochuan.” You clamber across a narrow gangplank, often timing your step with the roll of the swell. These secondary boats fan out to Qingbang, Dongfu, Huangxing, and the smaller uninhabited rocks. There is no posted timetable. The captains wait until they have a viable load, then go. If you’re headed to Qingbang for the Lisbon Maru memorial or the lighthouse hike, confirm the destination with the helmsman before you step aboard; accents run thick here, and “Qingbang” can sound like “Qingbang” to an untrained ear. Fares for the second leg are paid directly to the crew, usually ten to twenty yuan depending on distance. Keep small bills. The ride to Qingbang takes twenty minutes; Dongfu is closer to thirty. The boats run until the last inbound ferry from Shenjiamen has offloaded its passengers, but after the late afternoon sailing the frequency drops sharply. Missing the last connection means an unplanned night in the Miaozihu guesthouse cluster—basic rooms, shared bathrooms, and the smell of drying cuttlefish in the stairwell. ## Choosing Your Base: Qingbang vs. Dongfu Qingbang is the busier hub. The documentary about the *Lisbon Maru* brought a wave of domestic tourists, so the harbor front now has a string of guesthouses, a couple of cafes serving passable pour-over, and a small museum detailing the 1942 sinking. The lighthouse trail starts ten minutes uphill from the dock—stone steps, wind-bent pines, and a view that takes in the whole chain. I stay here when I want evening company, cold beer on a plastic stool, and the option to hike at first light. Dongfu feels quieter, older. The village clusters around a sheltered cove where the water laps against stone seawalls. Fewer guesthouses, more family homestays where the host’s grandmother might press a bowl of steamed hairy crab into your hands at dinner. The beach here is a proper crescent of coarse sand, calm enough for a long swim even when the wind kicks up outside the harbor. I choose Dongfu when the goal is to wake up, walk barefoot to the water, and not see another traveler until lunch. ## Beaches That Actually Feel Like Beaches