No dock awaits the ship, no light marks a village: Torishima simply exists, a volcanic cone standing alone in the middle of the Pacific. This uninhabited island in the Izu archipelago, administratively part of Tokyo though some 570 kilometres away from it, lies about 300 kilometres south of Hachijōjima. Expedition itineraries heading down to the Ogasawara Islands or coming up from the South Pacific approach it for scenic cruising, with no landing: the island belongs to its birds, and this solitude is what gives it its value.

The island of albatrosses

Its name means "bird island", and it lives up to it. Torishima is the main nesting site of the short-tailed albatross, a giant of the seas once thought extinct in the mid-twentieth century, decimated by hunting for its feathers. Thanks to decades of patient efforts by Japanese researchers, the colony has slowly rebuilt itself on the ash-covered slopes, and the island has been a protected bird reserve since 1954. Each pair raises only one chick per season: the species' return has therefore been won year after year, nest after nest, on this remote piece of land. From the decks, binoculars in hand, you follow these long-haul gliders as they skim the waves without a wingbeat, then soar back up into the wind as if pulled by an invisible thread.

A volcano at the ocean's surface

What you see of Torishima, a dome about two and a half kilometres across rising to 394 metres, is only the summit of an underwater volcanic structure some 3,000 metres high. The island remains active: an eruption reshaped its slopes as recently as 2002, and the cliffs bear the scars of successive lava flows and collapses. Circling the island, at a respectful distance from shore, reveals ochre and grey walls, inaccessible coves and plumes of spray exploding against the rocks. The contrast between this mineral violence and the grace of the great birds makes for a spectacle you never tire of.

A morning on the open sea

Approaching Torishima turns the ship into an observation post. On-board naturalists provide commentary from the bridge, identify the species crossing nearby, petrels, shearwaters and other great gliders, and sometimes point out the blow of a migrating humpback whale; sighting lists grow longer as the morning goes on. Everyone settles wherever they like, at the bow facing the wind or sheltered behind a picture window, while photographers rest their telephoto lenses on the railing. The swell decides the rest: some days, the ship lingers at length off the colony; on others, it salutes the island from farther away. No excursion to prepare, no schedule to keep, and this letting go is among the true luxuries of a sea voyage.

Port call highlights

When the island returns to its solitude beyond the horizon, a particular silence lingers on the decks, that of passengers who have just witnessed something larger than themselves. A species brought back from the brink of extinction, a volcano that carries on its work, and no human trace to blur the scene. Some ports of call are visited; this one is contemplated, and it stays with those lucky enough to pass this way for a long time.