"20 Dollar Ferry Ticket, Entering a Miyazaki Hayao Summer on Tap Mun Island"

When boarding the ferry to Tap Mun Island, I always felt that the 20-dollar ticket was like an entry pass to a fairy tale—until the moment I stepped onto the pier, I truly understood the phrase "worth every penny," which still couldn't fully express how wonderful it was. This island is charmingly pristine, with indigenous houses scattered along the coastline. The roof tiles are dampened by the sea breeze, and the fishing nets drying at the door still carry a salty scent. Turning left from the pier, walking along the winding path to the "Stacked Rocks," the ground beneath my feet was a mix of gravel and fine sand, crunching softly as I stepped. After a few steps, the view suddenly opened up—a vast sea came into sight, so blue it was translucent, as if the sky had been crushed and spread across the ground. The stacked rocks stood by the shore, large stones piled crookedly like toys carelessly built by giants, and beneath the stones was the endless horizon of the sea. The best part was the bench facing the sea. It sat there all alone by the edge of the lawn, its paint weathered and peeling from the sea wind, yet it radiated a stubborn kind of gentleness. Sitting down, the sea breeze slipped in through my collar, carrying the coolness of the ocean; in the distance, waves hit the reefs with a muffled sound, like someone softly humming. Taking out my phone to capture a live photo, there was no need to adjust any filters—the sky was a clear blue, the sea a gradient of teal, the lawn a tender green, and even the clouds drifted slowly, each frame a natural palette perfectly tuned. Time on the island seemed to move especially slowly. The afternoon lawn looked like a scene straight out of a Miyazaki Hayao comic: herds of cows swishing their tails rolled around on the grass, some even napping under the shade of trees, not moving when people approached, their eyelashes still dusted with grass fragments. The lawn was soft and plush, barefoot felt like stepping on velvet. The distant horizon merged with the edge of the lawn, and when the wind blew, the grass waves and sea waves swayed together, making it feel as if I had wandered into the summer of "My Neighbor Totoro." I have chased countless sunsets in Shenzhen—from office rooftops to the coastal promenade—but the sunset on Tap Mun Island is the kind that takes your breath away. At dusk, the sky slowly dyed itself orange-red, then seeped into pink-purple, and finally faded into pale blue. The sea surface looked like it was covered with crushed gold, the reflections on the wave crests so bright they made you squint. Even the cows lifted their heads to look, their shadows stretched long, blending with the distant stacked rocks and the nearby bench, all embedded in this flowing painting. Until the last ray of light sank into the sea, I stood there dazed—turns out a sunset without filters really can make you want to applaud. This place is perfect for "getting away from it all." No hawkers, no crowded crowds, and even the cell signal is spotty at times. When tired, just sit on the reef and zone out, watching fishing boats slowly glide across the horizon, listening to indigenous children chasing the waves by the shore. Those nerves stuffed with KPIs, commutes, and meetings seem to soften in this sea, slowly stretching out and relaxing. If you want to visit the island, listen to me—choose to depart from Ma Liu Shui Pier for the smoothest trip. From University Station Exit B, it’s a ten-minute walk to the pier, along the way you’ll see students cycling by, with the scent of milk tea in the air. The ferry ride takes about an hour, and window seats offer views of small islands along the way, with fishing boats resting on the water like white birds. On weekdays, there are two ferries daily: 8:30 AM departure and 11:10 AM return, 3:00 PM departure and 5:00 PM return; on weekends, there’s an extra trip at 12:30 PM departure and 1:45 PM return. It’s recommended to catch the early ferry so you can soak in the island all afternoon. When leaving, I looked back at that lawn—the cows were still grazing, the bench was empty, and the afterglow of the sunset was slowly climbing onto the stacked rocks. Suddenly, I felt that this island trip was truly "worth it," clearly a stolen moment, a good day so precious that even time itself was reluctant to leave.