I have spent much of my professional life at sea. I am a Master Mariner. I have stood on the bridge, made decisions in the middle of the night, dealt with emergencies, managed crews and sailed vessels in difficult conditions.
Today, I am on the other side of the table. I work ashore as Head of Vetting, Crew Training and Development.
My responsibilities now include marine assurance, vetting, training, competency, familiarisation and the development of seafarers.
That change of position has given me something that I did not have when I was sailing.
I now see both sides. I understand the commercial requirements of the company. I understand the operational pressures. I understand the charterer’s expectations.
I understand why a vessel has to sail. I understand what the Master is expected to do.
But I also understand what it means when the person receiving those instructions is a human being who has a family waiting for him at home.
And lately, I have been thinking about that person more and more.
Because merchant seafarers are increasingly being asked to operate in places where a commercial vessel can become a target for missiles, drones, mines or other hostile actions.
The ship is civilian. The cargo is commercial. The crew is civilian. But the environment is becoming military.
That contradiction should concern all of us.
The IMO reported in September 2026 that it had verified 80 attacks on merchant vessels in and around the Strait of Hormuz since 28 February, with at least 22 seafarers killed.
In the Black Sea and Sea of Azov, merchant vessels have also been damaged in attacks, with seafarers injured.
These are not simply incidents on a casualty database. Every number represents a person. And every surviving seafarer carries something home with him.
Sometimes we can see it. Sometimes we cannot.
What they bring home
This is not an article I am writing from reports alone. I have spoken with seafarers who returned from vessels that had experienced hostile attacks.
I will not identify them. I do not need to.
The names are not important. Their experience is.
When you speak to somebody who has just come back from such an incident, you notice things that are not visible in a company report.
You can see the shock. You can hear the uncertainty.
Sometimes the seafarer talks continuously. Sometimes he does not want to talk at all. Some describe the sound of the explosion. Some remember the vibration of the vessel. Some remember the alarm. Some remember the fire. Some remember running to their emergency stations without knowing whether the next explosion would hit them.
And some remember something that, to me, is perhaps the most frightening part.
The waiting.
Waiting for the next attack. Waiting for the next sound. Waiting to find out whether the ship has been targeted. Waiting to see whether the vessel will make it out.
That waiting can be psychologically exhausting.
A missile attack may last seconds. The fear can last for days.
When going back is not a simple choice
This is where things become uncomfortable.
Because after the seafarer returns home, the world continues. The company continues. The vessels continue. The charterparty continues. The cargo still has to move. The next crew change is already being planned. And eventually, the seafarer receives the question:
“When can you go back?”
There is nothing unusual about that question in ordinary circumstances. It is part of our business.
But imagine asking it of someone who has just survived a missile or drone attack. He has just seen what can happen. He knows that it is real. He knows that the vessel can be hit. He knows that the next ship may not be as lucky. And yet he may still say:
“I will go.”
Why?
Because he has a family. Because he needs his salary. Because he has responsibilities. Because he has spent twenty years building his career. Because he does not want to abandon his colleagues. Because he believes it is his duty.
Or simply because he does not see another realistic option.
This is where we need to be very careful with the word “choice.”
A seafarer may legally have a right to refuse certain assignments in designated Warlike Operations Areas under applicable collective agreements.
But having a right and feeling free to exercise that right are not necessarily the same thing.
There is an enormous difference between the two.
When I see him again
There is another part of this story that is rarely discussed. The seafarer comes back. He has had some time at home. And then he comes to the office.
I may have to conduct his refresher training. I may have to check his certificates. I may have to go through company procedures with him. I may have to conduct familiarisation. I may have to prepare him for his next assignment. This is my job. It is part of my responsibility.
And professionally, I have to do it properly.
But there is something very different about sitting across the table from a man who has already experienced an attack.
Because I know what I am preparing him for. And he knows it too.
We can talk about emergency procedures. We can review the ship’s security arrangements. We can discuss the latest company instructions. We can go through the emergency response plan. We can conduct refresher training. We can discuss the citadel. We can discuss communications. We can discuss reporting procedures. We can even discuss what to do in the event of an attack. All of this is necessary.
But somewhere in the back of his mind there may be another thought. One that is not written anywhere in the training material.
“What if the next missile hits my ship?”
And perhaps another:
“What if this time I don’t come back to my family?”
That is the thought that I cannot put into a training checklist. There is no box for it. There is no signature line for it. There is no PowerPoint slide that solves it.
I can train him. I can familiarise him. I can make sure he knows the procedures. I can make sure he is competent. I can make sure the company has fulfilled its training requirements. But I cannot promise him that a missile will not hit his ship.
Nobody can.
And I think we need to be honest about that.
What training cannot prepare you for
This creates a very strange situation for those of us working ashore. We are responsible for preparing seafarers to deal with risks. But some risks cannot be trained away.
I can train a Master to deal with an engine failure. I can train an officer to respond to a fire. I can train a crew to abandon ship. I can train them in enclosed-space rescue. I can train them in collision avoidance. I can conduct emergency exercises until the response becomes almost automatic.
But what do I train them to do when a missile is coming?
We can train the response. We can reduce confusion. We can improve the chances of survival. We can make sure everybody knows where to go and what to do.
That matters.
But it does not remove the threat. This distinction is important.
Training reduces vulnerability. It does not create immunity.
And perhaps this is where our industry sometimes becomes too comfortable with the language of risk management.
We identify the hazard. We assess it. We introduce controls. We record the residual risk. We approve the voyage.
All that from the comfort of our office.
But there are situations where the residual risk remains frighteningly high. And the person carrying that residual risk is not the person sitting in the meeting room.
It is the seafarer.
Risk looks different from the bridge
When I was at sea, risk was not a number on a spreadsheet. It was the weather outside the bridge window. It was the traffic on the radar. It was the visibility. It was the machinery condition. It was the approaching port. It was the decision I had to make at 0300 hrs.
Today, sitting ashore, I have access to much more information.
Threat intelligence. Security reports. Risk assessments. Vessel tracking in real time. Incident reports. Company procedures. Advisories.
But I have not forgotten what it feels like to stand on the bridge.
That is why the current situation bothers me. We can talk about risk all day in an office.
The seafarer has to live inside it.
What a risk matrix cannot capture
One of the great strengths of the maritime industry is our ability to manage risk systematically. But sometimes I wonder whether we have become too comfortable with the system.
We produce a risk assessment. We identify controls. We establish procedures. We conduct drills. We issue instructions. We monitor compliance.
And then we say:
“The risk is controlled.”
But is it?
If a missile is launched at a merchant vessel, what control measure does the Master actually have? If an armed drone approaches the ship, what can the Chief Engineer do? If the vessel is struck, what can the cadet do? If the accommodation is damaged, what can the cook do?
The crew can respond. They can increase their chances of survival. They can follow procedures. They can be trained. They can be prepared.
But they cannot control the weapon. This is the fundamental problem.
We are asking civilian workers to manage consequences generated by military capabilities over which they have absolutely no control.
The first night back on board
I sometimes think about what happens when that seafarer eventually boards again.
He walks up the gangway. He meets the crew. He sees the familiar accommodation. He goes to his cabin. He unpacks. He goes to the bridge or engine room. Everything looks normal. The radar is working. The ECDIS is working. The GMDSS equipment is there. The alarms in the ER sound as always. The vessel is operating normally.
But he is not necessarily the same person who left the vessel last time.
At some point during that first night watch, perhaps he looks at the horizon. Perhaps he remembers. Perhaps he hears a noise. Perhaps there is a flash in the distance. Perhaps nothing happens at all.
But his brain already knows what happened before. That is the difference.
The first voyage teaches you what the threat might be. The second voyage reminds you that it is real.
The family lives with the risk too
There is another person who is never included in the risk assessment. The wife. The husband. The partner. The children. The parents.
The family receives the news about attacks too. Sometimes before the company communicates anything. They watch television. They read the news online. They hear that another vessel has been hit. Then they look at the vessel tracking application. They know where their husband or father is.
They wait for the message.
“Everything is okay.”
And if the message does not come? The mind does the rest.
This is the part of seafaring that people ashore rarely see. A seafarer does not sail alone.
His family sails with him psychologically.
The pressure is not only commercial
It would be easy to blame the shipowner. I don’t think that would be accurate.
The problem is much larger. There is commercial pressure. There is pressure from cargo interests. There are charterparty obligations. There are supply-chain requirements. There are national economic interests. There are energy requirements. There are political considerations. There are international trade considerations.
And there is the seafarer.
At the end of this enormous system, one person eventually walks onto the ship.
He may be the Master. He may be the Chief Officer. He may be a young cadet. And the entire system effectively says:
“The ship needs to go.”
So he goes.
That does not make him weak. It does not make him reckless. And it does not necessarily mean that he considers the risk acceptable.
It may simply mean that he has responsibilities.
When resilience becomes an excuse
We often praise seafarers for their resilience. We call them brave. We say that they keep world trade moving under extraordinary circumstances. All of this is true.
But there is a danger in praising resilience too much. Because eventually resilience can become an excuse.
If the seafarer continues working despite fear, we call him resilient. If he says that he is psychologically affected, we may start asking whether he is fit for duty.
That is backwards.
A seafarer saying:
“I am afraid.”
is not necessarily a safety problem.
A seafarer saying:
“I am having nightmares after the attack.”
is not necessarily weak.
A seafarer saying:
“I don’t know if I can go back there.”
is not necessarily failing his duty.
Perhaps he is simply telling us the truth.
And safety management depends upon people being able to tell the truth.
What happens after the attack?
When a ship is damaged, we investigate. When machinery fails, we investigate. When somebody is injured, we investigate. We conduct root-cause analysis. We identify corrective actions. We issue recommendations.
But what happens to the human being?
Do we conduct a proper psychological assessment? Do we give him confidential professional support? Do we follow him six months later? Do we ask whether he is sleeping? Do we ask whether he wants to return to sea? Do we ask whether he is afraid? Do we ask his family how they are coping?
And if he says:
“I don’t want to go back.”
what happens next?
These are not philosophical questions. They are operational questions.
A traumatised, exhausted and psychologically distressed seafarer is also a human-performance concern. That means it belongs inside our safety-management thinking.
Compensation is not protection
War-risk pay is important. Compensation is important. Insurance is important. Death and disability benefits are essential.
But we should never confuse compensation with protection.
If we pay a seafarer more money to enter a dangerous area, we have compensated him for accepting additional risk. We have not eliminated the risk.
A higher salary does not stop a missile. A war-risk allowance does not intercept a drone. Insurance does not bring a dead seafarer back to his children.
Money is necessary. But money is not protection.
The burden the Master carries
There is another question that deserves attention.
Who protects the Master?
The Master is responsible for the safety of everybody on board.
But who supports him when he has to make an impossible decision?
If he proceeds, he may later ask whether he should have waited. If he waits, he may face commercial pressure. If he refuses, he may worry about the consequences. If he changes course, he may delay the voyage.
And if the vessel is attacked, he may spend the rest of his career asking himself whether he could have done something differently.
The Master carries responsibility for things he does not control. That is an enormous psychological burden.
I know what that responsibility feels like. That is perhaps why I cannot look at this issue purely as an office-based management question.
I have been on the other side.
We cannot hide behind words
“Seafarers are our priority.”
“Safety remains our number one concern.”
“We are monitoring the situation closely.”
“We continue to assess the risk.”
“We are working with relevant authorities.”
All of these statements may be perfectly sincere.
But eventually the seafarer needs something more concrete. He needs to know:
What happens if I refuse? What happens if I am attacked? What happens if I am injured? What happens if I cannot sleep afterwards? What happens if I am not psychologically able to return to the same route? What happens to my family? Who pays? Who decides? Who follows up? Who is responsible?
These are the questions that matter.
What protection should look like
If we genuinely believe that seafarers are civilians who must be protected, then protection has to become measurable.
After a serious hostile incident, there should be a defined process.
Immediate medical assessment. Psychological first aid. Confidential professional assessment. Proper rest and recovery. Family support. Structured debriefing. Follow-up after repatriation. Assessment before return to high-risk operations.
And importantly, there should be no stigma attached to asking for help.
The industry has developed sophisticated systems for physical safety.
We need the same seriousness when dealing with psychological consequences.
Not because seafarers are fragile. Because they are human.
The question I cannot answer
There is one question that stays with me.
I can train a seafarer. I can familiarise him. I can check his competence. I can prepare him for his next assignment. I can make sure the company has procedures. I can make sure the ship is prepared.
But when I look at that seafarer and know that he may be sailing into an area where merchant ships are being attacked, there is one question I cannot answer for him.
I cannot promise that he will come home.
And perhaps that is the question we should all be asking. Not:
“Can the ship go?”
But:
“What are we doing to make sure the person on that ship comes home?”
Because the next missile does not know the charterparty. It does not know the cargo value. It does not know the company’s profit. It does not know the Master’s rank. It does not know whether the seafarer has three children at home. It does not know that he has promised his wife he will be home for his daughter’s birthday. It does not know that the young cadet has just started his career. It does not care.
And when the missile is already in the air, another risk assessment is not going to protect him.
That is why this conversation cannot remain another conference speech. It cannot remain another circular.
It cannot remain another statement saying that “seafarers are our greatest asset.”
If they really are our greatest asset, then we need to start acting as though their lives are more valuable than the cargo they carry.
Because when everything else is stripped away, that is what this discussion is really about.
Not ships. Not cargo. Not charterers. Not insurance. Not geopolitics.
People.
The people who leave home so that the rest of the world can continue trading. The people who stand the watch when everyone else is asleep.
The people who keep the engines running. The people who navigate the ship. The people who respond when the alarm sounds.
And the people who, after surviving one attack, may still have to sit across from someone like me, complete their refresher training and familiarisation, sign their documents and prepare to go back to sea.
Perhaps he will look perfectly calm. Perhaps he will even smile.
And perhaps somewhere inside his mind there will be one thought that he will never say out loud:
“What if this time the missile hits me?”
And another:
“What if I don’t come back to my family?”
We owe that man more than another safety announcement. We owe him an answer.
Who is really protecting him?
Capt. George Papanelopoulos, PhD, AFNI, is a Master Mariner and Head of Vetting, Training & Development.