A Tale from One of the World’s Most Dangerous Waterways
By James McMahon
It was October 31st 2008 at 1:30am when our planned voyage went sideways. We sailed north along the coast of Malaysia and soon found ourselves entering a notorious stretch of water called the Strait of Malacca. This narrow passage between Malaysia and Sumatra, Indonesia, is known as the second most pirated waterway in the world (with the waters off the coast of Somalia in northeast Africa being the first). Our Mission was to to sail from Carnes Australia to Phuket Thailand while collecting scientific data on marine ecosystems and training our sailing capabilities. But our course leads us directly into these treacherous waters. Before departing, we’d been briefed on the risks and planned a straight shot to our destination, Langkawi, Malaysia.
The Strait of Malacca is a superhighway for global trade, crowded with massive barges and oil tankers rounding the tip of Southeast Asia. Our 112-foot sailing schooner—a beautiful, sleek vessel—stood out like a sore thumb among the dark, rust-streaked giants. To avoid drawing attention, we chose to make the passage at night.
I took the helm around three in the morning. The night was heavy and black, the sky blanketed by clouds. Only the faint lights of distant ships, our own mast lights, and the glow of the navigation instruments cut through the darkness. The sea was calm, and with barely a breath of wind we were motor-sailing smoothly—until a crew member on bow watch returned to report a ship off our starboard side moving to port. I made a slight adjustment and thought nothing of it.
A few minutes later, my crew member came back. The ship, he said, was now moving from port to starboard. I thanked him, corrected to port, and chalked it up to a misread—an easy enough mistake to make on a dark night. But when he returned again to say the same ship had switched back from starboard to port, the hairs on my neck stood up.
“Wake the captain,” I said, my gut tightening.
The captain appeared moments later, eyes half-open, clearly unhappy about being dragged from his bunk. “This better be good,” he grumbled. I explained the situation, and his demeanor changed instantly. He took the wheel and ordered me below to close all hatches and windows, kill the lights, and wake every man aboard.
Within minutes the crew assembled on deck, geared up and armed with whatever we could grab—machetes, poles, anything with weight. The ship ahead of us loomed closer, a large motor vessel two stories high, its deck lights glowing against the black sea. My heart thumped as I gripped the helm.
Then a powerful spotlight snapped on, flooding our schooner from bow to stern. It swept slowly across us, as if assessing our size and crew. We could see the silhouettes of men running with guns on the ship’s upper deck.
The captain slowed our speed and told me to be ready to cut the mast lights. That’s when we heard it: the guttural roar of small landing boats hitting the water, their engines sputtering like unmuffled Harley Davidsons. The sound sent a cold jolt through all of us. Whoever was aboard that ship wasn’t just passing by.
The captain eased our course slightly to port. The other vessel matched the move, staying dead ahead. Now we were only a few hundred yards apart, bow to bow. The roar of the small boats grew louder. “Drop the sails. Kill the lights,” the captain barked.
As the crew obeyed, he spun the wheel hard to starboard and slammed the throttle forward. Normally we treated our schooner with care, but this time he drove her like a getaway car. Our schooner sliced past the stern of the other ship and vanished into the blackness of the cloudy night.
We ran at full speed for more than an hour—with no lights, and the only sound being the engine and the rush of water—until we were certain we’d left them behind. Only then did we ease back onto our original course toward Langkawi.
By morning, adrenaline gave way to shaky laughter. We gathered on deck, trading versions of the night and realizing how close we’d come to something far worse. Quick thinking and decisive action had carried us through—and very likely saved our lives on our crossing of the Strait of Malacca.
