These Gorgeous Islands Are One of the World's Most Underrated Cruise Destinations — With Deserted Beaches and 150,000 Giant Tortoises

We were en route to Aldabra Atoll, in the Seychelles, having just spotted a pod of sperm whales off the beam of our ship, when a voice intoned over the P.A. “There will be a biosecurity briefing at three o’clock. Your attendance is mandatory.”

Most travelers, if they’ve considered the Seychelles at all, think of it as a destination for proposals or honeymoons, akin to Bora-Bora or the Maldives. In the popular imagination, the islands are a place where plush resorts fringed by loamy sand invite you to do nothing at all. But I had come seeking something deeper: rare birdlife, guided walks through isolated ecosystems, and the chance to geek out with naturalists. The idea of a “biosecurity briefing,” which would explain why we’d need to vacuum our clothes and have biocides applied to our boots to prevent contaminating the islands, had me excited. My husband, Chris, on the other hand, found the idea a chore.

“What do you mean we have to go to a briefing?” he said, exasperated.

I had only myself to blame: when I suggested we travel to some of the least visited corners of the Seychelles aboard the 92-cabin Le Jacques-Cartier, I left out a few details. I sold Chris on the idea of deserted beaches and bragging rights, and I mentioned that this trip, organized by Abercrombie & Kent in partnership with Ponant, would draw an exclusive, well-traveled group. I promised him that, this being a French-flagged ship, the food and drink would be exceptional. 

But, I confess, I may have left out the word expedition.

As luxurious as our trip turned out to be, it was, without a doubt, an adventure. The itinerary took us from Zanzibar, off the coast of Tanzania, to a dozen destinations across the Seychelles. Each stop involved shore transfers by Zodiac, with “wet landings” on often pristine shorelines where we’d jump from the boat into the surf. Every day, there were lectures on the wildlife, an evening recap of sightings made, and a preview of the next day’s agenda (subject to weather conditions). All of this was orchestrated by expedition director Geraldine “J. D.” Massyn.

At least in the beginning, the ever-shifting plans delivered a shock to the system for Chris, who enjoys the predictability of a typical cruise itinerary. For me, the come-what-may nature of our sail through this remote archipelago was just part of the fun.

Biosafety protocols attended to, we anchored off Aldabra, a rarely visited atoll that’s home to more than 150,000 giant tortoises — 10 times the number found in the Galápagos Islands. With us was April Burt, a naturalist who has spent more than two years living on Aldabra, researching its ecosystem. “More people have climbed Mount Everest than have stepped foot on this atoll,” she said.

Aldabra’s remoteness has rendered it relatively untouched by humans, making it an ideal place to observe evolutionary processes. In addition to being home to giant tortoises, it’s a busy breeding site for endangered green and hawksbill turtles and has the world’s second-largest frigatebird colony. Several bird species are found nowhere else, including the white-throated rail, the last flightless bird of the western Indian Ocean. 

“They flew here from Madagascar, but once they arrived, the rails rapidly lost their ability to fly because there weren’t any predators,” Burt explained.

The birds, I thought, were on to something. Sandy coves unfurled beneath lacy casuarina trees, the water was bathtub-calm, and baby blacktip reef sharks slipped through the shallows. We spent the morning drift-snorkeling through Passe Dubois, a channel that connects the lagoon and surrounding ocean. Later, behind the research station, a massive tortoise lumbered past, his 150 or so years etched into every wrinkle, while a copper-hued bird wandered about my feet, undaunted. 

Aldabra does have an inhospitable side: there’s no fresh water, and the temperature soars each day. Researchers are essentially trapped on the atoll for up to six months each year, when monsoons make boat landings dangerous. They subsist on a diet of frozen and canned goods, Burt told us, along with plentiful fresh fish.

Still, our visit was delivering exactly the kind of far-flung escape I’d been hoping for. Chris, meanwhile, was getting into the rhythm of the expedition — and enjoying the comforts of the ship. There are two restaurants: Nautilus, with its full-on fine-dining menu, and the Grill, which offers casual outdoor meals poolside. Given the equatorial heat, the pool, though small, proved to be popular. That said, the ship never felt crowded, in part because A&K limits capacity for its tours, meaning that some rooms go deliberately unfilled.

As we hopscotched through the Seychelles, we had more adventures. Pancake-flat Assumption Island had an exquisitely placid bay backed by a long arc of glistening sand that revealed the footprints of ghost crabs and nesting sea turtles. Off Astove Atoll, we snorkeled above the lip of a coral wall that descended hundreds of feet; staring into the abyss amid the teeming fish set my heart racing. On Farquhar Atoll, I spotted a fairy tern sitting at eye level, guarding its egg; as I stepped closer for a photo, hundreds of hermit crabs scurried away.

Each island brought unexpected discoveries, and each was completely different from the last. On the little island of La Digue, bicycles were the preferred means of transport between small inns and cafés, and pink granite boulders protruded from the sand. 

On Praslin, we hiked through the Vallée de Mai, where the jungle was filled with palm trees and endangered Seychelles black parrots. There was more breathtaking avian life on Aride, which is just a mile long yet home to 1.25 million nesting seabirds. The entire island is a wildlife sanctuary, protected by a half-dozen rangers who live along a bucolic beach lapped by cheery rollers. We could’ve left our binoculars on the ship: fairy terns hovered like angels, while underfoot, often just inches from a hiking path, we found white-tailed tropicbirds nesting on the ground, their absurdly long tail feathers pointing straight up like elegant weather vanes.

Back on board, Chris and I returned to what had become our favorite evening perch, an outdoor table on the starboard side that overlooked the pool and the horizon beyond. Raising a glass as we cruised toward our final port, the capital city of Victoria, he shared a new perspective on all those Zodiac rides and wet landings. “It’s been a privilege,” he said as we clinked glasses.

Fourteen-day expeditions in the Seychelles on Le Jacques-Cartier from $17,495 per person, all-inclusive.

A version of this story appeared in the Dec. 2023/Jan. 2024 edition of Travel + Leisure under the headline "A Study in Blues."