I am not at sea this Easter.
After many years onboard, I am now ashore, working from an office, dealing with vetting requirements, training matrices, circulars, and the usual flow of emails that never really stops. On paper, everything looks structured. Risk assessments are filed, passage plans are reviewed, advisories are circulated.
But the sea has a way of staying with you. And these days, my thoughts are not here. They are with the crews — our crews — somewhere off the Middle East, waiting in the vicinity of the Strait of Hormuz.
You don’t forget the feeling
You can come ashore, take a shore position, even completely change your routine — but you don’t forget what it feels like to be on watch during a holiday.
I remember Easters at sea.
0000–0400 watch. Quiet bridge. Dimmed lights. Maybe a bit of traffic on the radar, maybe nothing at all.
You note the position in the logbook, check the gyro error, scan the horizon — and somewhere in the back of your mind, you remember what day it is.
This time, for the men out there, it’s not just another Easter away from home. There’s an added layer to it.
The situation is not just “high risk” on paper
From the office side, we classify things properly:
“Elevated threat level.”
“Transit with caution.”
“Follow latest BMP and company security procedures.”
“Maintain enhanced bridge watchkeeping during transit.”
All correct. All necessary.
But anyone who has actually conned a vessel through that area knows that words like high risk don’t fully capture the feeling.
The Strait of Hormuz is a narrow passage even in normal conditions — dense traffic, constrained waters, constant VHF chatter, fishing vessels crossing where they shouldn’t.
Now add uncertainty on top of that. Not weather. Not traffic. Something you cannot plot on ECDIS.
Conversations that stay with you
These days, I speak more with Masters than I used to — but in a different way. Before, it was bridge-to-bridge, handovers, or cargo operations.
Now it’s through reports and calls. And you can tell when a Master is weighing his words.
Everything sounds routine:
“Vessel in position…”
“Awaiting further instructions…”
“Security level maintained…”
But then there’s a slight pause.
A question about routing.
A confirmation about company guidance.
A second check on whether transit is still intended.
Nothing unusual on the surface.
But you recognize it immediately.
Because you’ve asked the same questions yourself, once.
There are no drills for this
We train crews extensively:
Fire drills.
Abandon ship.
Blackout recovery.
Steering gear failure.
Even security drills — citadel procedures, restricted access, reporting protocols.
All of it has structure.
But this kind of risk sits outside the usual framework.
You can increase bridge manning.
Post additional lookouts.
Run radar on different ranges.
Keep AIS under review.
Still, some threats don’t give you time to react.
And every seafarer knows that — even if nobody says it out loud.
Easter, reduced to the basics
Onboard, holidays are always simplified.
Maybe the cook makes a bit more effort.
Maybe the Chief Engineer joins for coffee instead of going straight back to the engine room.
Maybe someone remembers the date and mentions it during the noon report.
For Orthodox crews, Easter usually carries weight.
But this year, I imagine it passes quietly.
No midnight service.
No candles on deck.
No “Christ is risen” echoing anywhere.
Just routine.
0800 handover.
Planned maintenance ticking along.
Engine parameters logged.
Deck and engine watches running as usual.
And in between all that, a few personal thoughts kept to oneself.
The responsibility feels different ashore
At sea, responsibility is immediate.
You make a decision, and you see the result directly — on the ship, on the crew, on the voyage.
Ashore, it’s different.
You review transit risk assessments.
You align with charterers and operators.
You follow intelligence updates, advisories, naval reports.
You send instructions that are clear, measured, and as practical as possible.
But you know that the final layer of responsibility still sits onboard — with the Master, standing on the bridge, making the call in real time.
And you also know what that feels like.
The personnel onboard will do what they always do
Despite everything, ships don’t stop.
Crews don’t stop.
The OOW will still take over the watch, check the course, verify position, and carry on.
The engine room will keep running as it should.
Planned maintenance will continue.
Logbooks will be filled in — properly and on time.
Because that’s what seafarers do.
Not because conditions are easy, but because professionalism doesn’t switch off when things become uncertain.
A quiet thought, nothing more
I wouldn’t call it a prayer exactly.
But you find yourself checking the fleet list more often than usual.
Looking at positions.
Reviewing ETAs.
Noticing who is close to the area and who has already passed.
And somewhere between one task and the next, a simple thought comes up:
Let them clear the area safely.
No big words. No drama.
Just that.
Closing
This Easter, I am ashore.
But part of my mind is still on the bridge of a vessel somewhere in the Middle East — watching traffic, monitoring the radar, listening to VHF Channel 16, and waiting for the next instruction.
For many seafarers out there, this is not a day of celebration.
It’s just another watch, carried out with a bit more awareness than usual.
And like everything else at sea, it will pass.
One watch at a time.
* Capt. George Papanelopoulos, PhD, AFNI, is Head of Vetting, Training & Development.