Dangerous Waters

By: By John S. Burnett | June 14, 2010 | Politics

To the astonishment of many, high-seas piracy, a crime thought long relegated to legend, has emerged from the history books and is as violent and as brutal as it ever was in the days of yore.

Pirates no longer fit the Hollywood image of plundering buccaneers — with eye patches, parrots on their shoulders, cutlasses in their teeth and wooden legs. Now, they are often ruthless gangs of gun-toting youths on small speedboats who take down giant merchant ships and make more money for one successful attack than they ever expected to earn in a lifetime.

Today, piracy is a crime that is out of control, occurring globally in most seas. According to the International Maritime Bureau, the organization that investigates maritime fraud and piracy, there were 409 reported attacks on shipping worldwide last year, including 50 hijackings. During the past 10 years, pirates have held more than 4,000 people hostage.

Media attention has focused on the pirate-infested seas off the coast of Somalia where some of the more celebrated attacks have occurred — the attempted hijacking of the American flagged Maersk Alabama, the hijacking of the supertanker Sirius Star carrying 300,000 tons of crude oil to the United States, and the failed hijacking of the cruise ship Seabourn Spirit carrying 151 well-heeled Western tourists. Last year, in these waters, Somali pirates hijacked 47 ships and took around a thousand people hostage.

These statistics reflect only reported incidents directed at commercial shipping and represent a fraction of the actual number. Most acts of piracy go unreported because ship owners do not want to tie up a vessel for lengthy investigations at operating costs of tens of thousands of dollars a day.

Not long ago, like many, I had thought of pirates as romantic swashbuckling rogues swinging through the rigging and rescuing fair damsels in distress. I found out the hard way that piracy was very real. It was the event that spurred me to spend years investigating the crime and write Dangerous Waters, Modern Piracy and Terror on the High Seas. That event is a nightmare that haunts me still.

I had been sailing alone across the South China Sea to Singapore aboard my little sloop Unicorn. While not a large boat — only 32 feet long — it is stout enough for ocean passages and comfortable enough to call home. Setting off single-handed was not recommended; Indonesian harbor officials in Borneo on the other side had warned me that a ship steaming through the same area had been attacked by pirates the night before.

I didn’t take their warnings seriously; I was more concerned with the difficult navigation through the reefs, dodging the heavy ship traffic and getting enough catnaps during the three-day passage.

I was approaching the southern end of the Malacca Strait, one of the busiest waterways in the world. The strait is a highway for 600 commercial ships a day that link Europe to the Pacific, the Persian Gulf and the Far East. At the time, I was to discover, it was also prime hunting ground for pirates.

It was my second night out from Borneo, and the atmosphere was heavy and airless. Lightning flashed off the port side from a thunderstorm over Sumatra. The reassuring loom of the Singapore city lights hovered faintly on the horizon in front of me to the west.

Many of the passing ships appeared ready for pirates: Their decks were fully illuminated by halogen lights and their fire hoses shot water out into the darkness.

Admitting to my own building fears, I went below to switch on the VHF radio … just in case.

A sudden jolt threw me off balance. My first thought was that I had hit an uncharted reef or a partially submerged container that had fallen off a cargo ship.

I felt the thump as someone jumped on the deck. Hushed but excited voices from above sent a wave of acid horror into my gut. I froze. The sudden unexpected sound of people on the boat, especially when you’ve been alone at sea for days, was as frightening as waking up in your home to find an intruder in the bedroom.

I couldn’t run; I couldn’t hide. I felt the panic of a trapped animal. I pulled my Indonesian machete out of its scabbard and turned to run topsides. By God, I’ll throw these guys off!

I had to calm myself and think. I replaced the knife in its sheath. I would fight only as a last resort; my life was more important than the toys on board. I would give them anything they wanted — except the Unicorn itself. On wobbly legs and scared to death, I pulled myself up the companionway steps.

A military-style patrol boat about the length of the Unicorn had tied up to me. Three shadowy figures shrouded in terrifying silence stood opposite pointing rifles at me. The decision not to resist was the right one.

I had worked in Jakarta and had a basic knowledge of the Bahasa Indonesian language. “Salamat Datang!” I welcomed them. My quavering voice belied my fear. I couldn’t fight. I could only try to be polite.

Over their shoulders, I could see a third, smaller figure attempting clumsily to get onto my boat.

There was plenty of light from the passing ships to seaward, enough to reveal their features. One gunman was, in Indonesian terms, an old man — about 40 — with sprigs of chin hair and a puckered permanent frown. The other two seemed no older than teenagers. The older boy was bare-chested with a thin black mustache, whose sullen eyes darted nervously and enviously over my boat.

I tried to refocus. Why the hell would they be on my little boat pointing guns at me? I just could not accept it. The situation was something out of a bad dream.

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