The Red Sea was calling. Awaiting us beyond the Gulf of Aden’s wicked waters lay an oasis of Arabian culture and diving fantasy. To reach the reward, we would first have to sneak through the 800 miles of Pirate Alley. We were up for an adventure, but the adventure soon became a whole lot hairier than expected. It is one we will never forget…
The voyage toward the Gulf of Aden was the calm before the storm. We motored through the warm and windless days, over a sea so still that the horizon was lost in reflection of the sky. At night, the Milky Way blazed across the sky, so vividly I could perceive the spiral arms and central clusters. Stars were reflected all around and joined with bioluminescence streaming from the bow. Three dolphins circled, their bodies glimmering like angels and leaving us with trails of fairy dust disappearing into the deep. To fall into this magical fantasy and be left behind in such bliss almost felt appealing. But there was greater fantasy ahead.
Ten days out from the Maldives we were nearing Pirate Alley. And when the seas are calm, the pirates come out to play. On the morning of that tenth day, a coalition destroyer came over the horizon and shadowed us for two hours, then made off back towards where he came. We had given our position to the UKMTO (Marine Trade Operations), who coordinate the anti-piracy actions of the coalition. “Just call us if you see anything suspicious” they’d said. At the appearance of the destroyer, my American captain turned to me, saying “How does it feel to have the might of your country watching over you? A helicopter gunship is just a phone-call away!”
Escort Service
I was awoken the next morning by the sound of an approaching helicopter. I came on deck to find a Black Hawk circling low around us. Amazing – we didn’t even have to call!
“Sailing vessel, sailing vessel,” came the French accent over the radio. “Are you aware you are in a high-risk piracy area?”
“We are well aware of that!” said captain Zac.
They continued to take our details, then, with a “bon voyage”, they flew off towards a navy ship sitting on the horizon. It wasn’t just the might of my country standing guard – we had all of NATO around us.
Later that day a long-range SAR aircraft flew overhead, circled, and flew on.
“I don’t know about you, but I’ve never felt safer!” said Zac, reclining in his chair.
He spoke too soon.
Surrounded by Skiffs!
A couple of hours after the fly-over, I saw two dhows appear on the horizon. Two is company, but at this stage I just assumed they were fishermen. After such a show of force, any pirate out here would have to be truly crazy or totally cavalier. In hindsight, though; just the right characteristics to make a pirate! To be honest I was happy to see these dhows – they remind me of home, and I was glad to be back in Arabia.
As we watched, however, there transpired a sight I wasn’t so fond of: skiffs. This was quickly becoming a crowd, and one by one, the horizon showed its cards. I counted five skiffs through the binoculars, with three or four men in each boat. Their behaviour was weird and erratic, seeming to be playing the rouse of fishermen, but with movements that would catch no fish. They’d shoot off at speed, then stop, and be overtaken by the next, all in a line. There was no mistaking it – we were their fish, and they were moving to intercept. As we drew closer, so did they. We called our buddies at UKMTO; backup would be good right now.
We had company, so it was time to break out the coffee. We stood on deck, brandishing AK-47s; we weren’t going to go quietly – especially with an American on board! The main pack were within a mile now, racing to cut us off ahead, while two skiffs and a dhow had broken away and were making straight for our position.
The MTO had said they would call back for an update in fifteen minutes, and, leaving Zac to hold the fort, I answered that call now. Three skiffs stopped beyond us, but we held our course. Twice we had evaded, and they had adjusted. The dhow was approaching fast from starboard, and a skiff passed behind us. They were upon us now, and Zac was aiming on them, ready to fire. One passed right in front of the bow, and the middle man held up his hands; luckily for them.
It was surreal to have this playing out around us. We were being preyed on by a swarm of pirates, and it was no fantasy. I will say that it was living! But there were at least twenty of them, and they could overcome us before the cavalry arrived. Soon it would be time to start shooting.
Then came the final attack. The dhow was gunning for us at speed, T-bone style, with three men climbed out on the bowsprit, ready to board. At fifty meters, the guys could clearly see our AKs, and they retreated a little into the bows. At just a few boat-lengths, the captain too saw the black metal in our hands, and veered off past our stern.
We watched them steam off into the shipping lane, following the skiffs. Wow – did that just happen? The pirates had passed us up. We shared a look of disbelief and couldn’t help but laugh. We seemed to be in the clear, but it wasn’t yet over – the skiffs were lining up on their next victim: the cargo ship SC Mara behind us. The ship opened up their water cannons and started evasive turns. The hyenas were sizing up their next prey.
After harassing SC Mara (who broadcast that they had armed guards on board), the pack disappeared over the horizon towards the east-bound shipping lane. This whole episode unfolded over about an hour; some minutes much longer than others! It seemed we had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and were just a target of opportunity; a couple of extra ransoms, with their main target being the tankers. I do think that having those weapons on board changed the game. Otherwise I don’t think you’d be reading this from me…
So, we continued on, with a sharper eye on the horizon. It was a calm and uneasy night on watch, knowing that pirates were close and could return in the darkness. Steadily the winds rose, and with them the seas, until thirty-foot waves were heaving past. They picked us up, sending us surfing down their face, then slipping off their backs, fighting with the rudder to stay straight and not be broached on our side. We were balancing the sails, the seas, and the wind on a knife’s edge, but were grateful for Poseidon’s protection against any more pirates.
French Somalia
For the next three days we rode the monsters to Djibouti, finally dropping anchor behind a beautifully dry and dusty island. Whew… we’d made it to Africa. It had been fourteen days since we’d left the Maldives. We put on the Eagles and sat back with a well deserved drink and cigar, reminiscing of that crazy voyage.
The next morning we made our way into the wide harbour city of Djibouti, coming to rest in amongst the anchored dhows, overshadowed by coalition frigates and cargo ships. Taking the dinghy in to shore to investigate, I was unnerved by what I found.
Djibouti is a French protectorate, called French Somaliland until 1967. This is the best way to describe it, and I did not feel welcomed. Luckily, I was adopted at the port by a little man named Rambo, and he became my faithful guide and bodyguard. I wanted to feel what the place was like, so instead of taking a taxi, we walked into town.
My first impression was of the Qatt. Men lay about in groups, picking at stems and stuffing more leaves into their bulging cheeks. Some had tennis-ball sized wads in their mouths! We passed the Qatt stalls, where women in colourful garments sat with blankets covering their produce. I bought some for Rambo, at 12 AED a bundle. And hey – when in Rome…
Overall, Djibouti had a feeling of tension and animosity; bad eyes and bad attitudes. It was hard to find good vibes to engage with. At one point I stopped to photograph an alley, which happened to have some men at the far end, sitting around a kettle behind some rubble. When they saw me, they shouted, angrily waving their arms for me to be gone. The Qatt didn’t do much to mellow out a day in Little Somalia.
Through the Bab al Mandeb
So the Gulf of Aden was behind us, but ahead still lay the Bab al Mandeb; the “Gate of Tears”. This is the 16-mile-wide squeeze point into the Red Sea, and another hot-spot for piracy. Adding to this, the war in Yemen has spilled into the strategic islands of the area.
We set off in the morning from Djibouti, timing our arrival so that we would slip through the Gate at midnight, making distance under cover of darkness. It was a windy and moonless night, with a sky full of stars. The waves rose until their crests were breaking, passing in a blaze of bioluminescence. All about us, star-blue spirits were surging towards the safe waters of the Red Sea.
All was well until just before sunrise, when the winds picked up to 50 knots. We needed to find shelter and wait out the storm. There was an island nearby, labelled “Jazirat Hanish al Kubra”, which the shipping lane was split between, so we headed there for cover. As we approached, the sun rose above the mountains of the island, and we found that the bay we were heading for was in fact the huge caldera of a freshly blown volcano. The island was black with ash and totally desolate. We had sailed into Mordor.
The wind blew fiercely into the caldera, so we continued along the coast in search of a more hospitable anchorage. In hindsight, I dread to think what could have played out if we’d dropped our hook here…
Yemeni Rebels
About halfway down the island, we saw a flatbed truck following us along the beach. There’s something on the back, but I can’t make out what. They pull parallel to us, and stop. A few moments later, we hear two great booms.
“Those were gun shots.”
Really guys… there’s no need for that.
We hear another volley, and there’s a great eruption of water as a round blasts into the sea beyond the truck. That’s a 50 calibre. Then we hear the tat-a-tat-tat of an AK-47, and a few more explosions from the 50 calibre. The shore is half a mile off, and a burst of water erupts within 100 yards of the boat, in line with the truck. ****! These are not warning shots – they’re aiming to hit us. We point our bow to the open sea and throw out the headsail. More shots ring out, but I don’t see them hit water – they’re somewhere in our airspace. The hair stands up on the back of my neck.
Getting shot at is very real. And they put a hole in my towel.
Saudi Coalition
We make distance from that forsaken island, watching behind in case we’re pursued. Poseidon is with us again – these seas are too big for their boats. Before we’ve relaxed our guard, a navy ship appears on the horizon in front of us.
“This is a Saudi Coalition warship. You are in a prohibited military area. What is your reason for being here?” comes the young captain’s voice, in perfect English. Zac explains that we were seeking shelter from the storm, and need rest.
After a lengthy back-and-forth, discussing the formalities of our details, Zac asks permission to stop at an island group further north.
“Understand, captain, that this is an operational war-zone. For your own safety, we cannot let you stop here. Good luck with the seas.” says the Saudian, in all friendliness.
While Zac was talking with the navy, a helicopter gunship arrived and started doing circles around us – about as close as he could without clipping the mast with his rotors. After his screaming circles he comes to a hover beside us, a few metres off the water, creating a local hurricane. Spray is whipped up and blown in our faces. I like this guy.
I see the gunner sitting at his cannon, wearing green fatigues, a big helmet and aviators – of course. I give him a friendly salute, and he returns it. The pilot has one hand hanging out of the window – and probably his foot on the dashboard, balancing his dokha pipe and joystick in the other. He takes off for a few more loops, while the gunner films us with a video camera, gesturing with his hand to apologise for the hurricane. No worries, my friend. We were basically in a hurricane anyway.
So having escaped pirates, dodged Yemeni bullets, and survived a brief stay in Little Somalia, Sudan beckoned to us as an oasis of peace from all this madness!
Words + Photos By: Will Pardoe
