Hong Kong＇s “MTR on the sea”: the citys network of inner-harbour ferries and piers
I took these ferries as a visitor, for the sheer enjoyment of the ride. But I soon realised that many of my fellow passengers weren’t tourists at all—they were island residents commuting to Hong Kong Island for work, shopping, or just running errands. Some were elderly women carrying shopping bags, clearly locals from somewhere like Cheung Chau; others were schoolgirls in navy-blue tunics, clearly heading to or from school. A good half of the passengers on any given sailing didn’t look like tourists—they looked like ordinary Hongkongers using the ferry the same way you’d use the MTR.
Sai Kung Pier, Hong Kong
Hong Kong’s inner-harbour ferries work much like the MTR. There’s no security screening at the gates, you can scan your WeChat MTR code to pay, and fares are very reasonable. Take the regular ferry from Central to Cheung Chau, for example: it’s only HK$14.50, and the "deluxe" version—if I remember correctly—is around HK$29, for a journey of about 40 minutes.
I actually prefer the regular ferry. The so-called deluxe ferry is fully enclosed, with sealed windows and air conditioning, which can feel stuffy. The regular ferry, on the other hand, is open-air, letting you feel the sea breeze and take in the views. Whenever I made the trip to Cheung Chau, I’d head straight for the stern and park myself on one of the round bollards behind the last row of seats. The crew would sometimes hover nearby for a while, keeping an eye on me—as if checking whether I was about to jump overboard. Not that there was any rule against sitting on those bollards, but you could tell they weren’t entirely keen on it. After a few minutes, once they saw that I wasn’t up to anything unusual—just sitting there with a perfectly normal, contented, thoroughly peaceful look on my face—they’d relax and move on.
Once we were under way, women would sometimes come out to the stern, lean against the railing, and strike poses for selfies or photos. From where I sat, the wake behind the boat was a long, brilliant white ribbon of churning water—edges clean, the interior in constant motion, like a dazzling strip of boiling snow, or a snowy road being stirred by some unseen force. It stretched far across the sea. Not quite to the horizon, but long enough to hold your gaze, to pull your attention outward until your mind and your field of vision both seemed to open up, growing broader and freer.
The boat winds through a landscape of islands—large and small, near and far—all of them part of what Hong Kong calls the outlying islands. There are 263 of them in total, and more than 90% are uninhabited. On some, you might spot a white house or two—likely staff quarters for a lighthouse keeper or some other official presence; others have only a tower, and seem completely empty. Still others are so dense with dark green vegetation that they look like nothing more than wild, untamed mounds of green, with no man-made structures in sight.
On some routes, ferries run as late as 11 p.m.—a real convenience for locals, and naturally a great advantage for visitors too.
Aside from the scheduled ferries, I once chartered a private boat from a local villager at Wong Shek Pier with a few friends. We paid HK$1,800 for a round trip: the boat took us to Ghost Hand Rock, then picked us up half an hour later and dropped us at Chek Chau Island. We arrived around 11:30 in the morning and arranged to be picked up at 3:30 p.m. at the same landing spot—I think it was Chek Chau Beach. The boat could easily carry 15 people; there were seven of us that day, so we split the cost evenly at just over HK$200 each—the more people, the more affordable it gets.
Chek Chau is also uninhabited—no residents, no staff on duty—but it has stone-paved paths and spectacular mountain-and-sea views, making it a great spot for hiking and camping. On the way back, we passed by Tap Mun Island, where we could see buildings and settlements in the distance. I’ve heard there’s a regular ferry from Wong Shek Pier to Tap Mun, but I haven’t been yet—it’s on my list for next time.
Riding a ferry is a genuinely wonderful experience, especially on an open-air boat. When the sea breeze picks up—if you’re sitting by the gunwale—it washes over you all the way. Sometimes the sun is on the same side, casting a golden sheen across the water and across your face. The sound of the waves surrounds you, an enveloping, three-dimensional texture that holds you in its midst. Every small noise brushes against your senses; your body feels as though it’s dispersing, expanding, merging into the vastness of the ocean and the sky. And yet, your mind stays still. The more finely you perceive the sounds, the light, the colours, the scenery around you, the quieter your inner world becomes. The weight of daily life, the anxieties—all of it seems to ease and fade, and you understand exactly what it means to be "in the moment." (Donnie Wang)
