Trapped with 23 crew and 110,000 tonnes of oil: Indian captain recounts 75 days stranded in Iran war

For 75 days, Raman Kapoor, an Indian tanker captain, and his crew were anchored in a war zone with missiles criss-crossing overhead. He writes about the long wait to return home from the Strait of Hormuz.

I didn’t get the first warning from an email or a company circular. I got it from the local pilot at an Iraqi port. It was early morning. Cargo ops were done. The pilot was climbing down the ladder when he paused and said quietly, “Captain, there’s trouble

Two hours later the office confirmed it. War had started.


I’m a seasoned Indian master of an oil tanker, at sea for over 28 years. We were stranded in the Strait of Hormuz for almost two and a half months due to heightened regional tensions and restricted transit advisories.

It’s been a blur, to be honest. February 28 was just another day and then, suddenly, we were in the middle of a war zone. The uncertainty was overwhelming. The first few hours were about trying to understand what was happening and finding a safe place to wait.

VACATE THE BERTH

The instructions came fast from port authorities: Vacate berth. Shift to safe anchorage within port limits. Do not proceed out. Await further orders.

Immediately I mustered all 23 crew members on the bridge. The youngest was 21. The oldest, our bosun, had 30 years at sea.

I broke the war news to them: war is here. We’ll shift to safe anchorage for now. We will follow every instruction. We will stay together. We will get through this.

No one asked questions instantly. At sea, you learn to listen first. But later there were loads of questions and concerns. Psychologically, my crew was devastated. 110,000 MT of cargo was still on board. The ship felt heavy.

ANCHORED IN A WAR ZONE

The irony is that the work never stops even when the ship isn’t moving. We still did rounds. Still checked tanks, generators, fire systems. Still cooked, cleaned and kept the engine room on standby. Daily life onboard remained almost the same.

But the crew remained fearful and under constant stress.

Regular meetings, security and safety drills had become routine. Every morning, 0800, security brief. Every afternoon: fire, abandon ship, missile strike! We drilled for things we prayed would never happen.

The bridge was manned 24 hours. Not for navigation—we weren’t going anywhere. But for watching. For listening to VHF radio. For counting naval boats circling the anchorage and missiles flying over us.

What kept our lives smooth was the inter - net. Unbroken. WhatsApp calls to wives, to mothers, to kids. “We are fine. Don’t worry.” We all said the same line. We all knew it wasn’t true.

Morale comes from routine and teamwork.

CORRIDOR OF UNCERTAINTY

My crew was under constant stress and devastated. There was no safe way out. No corridor, no escort, no plan.

The uncertainty was the worst part—no - body could say if we would be stuck for five days or five months. Prolonged stay meant missing family celebrations, folks panicking at home and young sailors asking if they would make it back at all.

You can’t switch off stress. The impact on mental health is severe, with anxiety and de - pression due to extended stay at sea and delayed repatriation.

What helped us get through? Two things. First, the crew itself. We became each other’s family. We conducted extra drills to stay focused, held mess-room prayers and took turns talking to the junior guys through night watches. Second, the knowledge that if we stopped, global supply would. That sense of duty kept us going. But while we remained safe at anchorage, we heard several stories that broke us. Seafarers losing their lives on other ships. Crews being disowned by companies. No regular supplies of food and water. No wages for months. No repatriation. Many ships received pressure from owners to sail through the Strait of Hormuz— “Commercial pressure,” they called it. As if cargo was more urgent than life.

FEAR HAD A NEW SOUND

And then the worst fear manifested. We were at the dinner table when we heard the blast.

A dull thud, then a flash on the port side. Close. Very close. Less than a mile away. The whole ship shook. Coffee cups jumped off tables.

For a few seconds, which felt like eternity, no one spoke. Then the alarms, the shouting on VHF, naval boats moving….

After that day, fear had a new sound. It was the silence between explosions. Over the next weeks we heard hundreds of explosions. We saw missiles flying over our heads. We felt tremors through the hull.

Sleepless nights and restless days became part of our lives. Living on the edge with constant fear of life.

BREAKING POINT

Then came the order we didn’t expect.

Office: “Carry out STS operation with another vessel in anchorage.” The whole crew refused.

I understood why. The last vessel we had seen attacked was also engaged in a similar ship-to-ship (STS) cargo transfer. No one wanted to be alongside another ship with hoses connected and nowhere to run, should bombs come calling.

The office kept instructing. “It’s company interest. It’s urgent.”

After many requests, the office ensured our security: naval boat patrolling during operation, standby boat ready and special bonus for all crew.

It subsequently went safe and well. Thirty-six hours alongside. Every 15 minutes, we looked up at the sky.

By now, exhaustion had set in. The crew was on the edge of mutiny. There were thoughts of resignation, because war wasn’t ending and the crew was not getting a positive response for their repatriation.

Back home, our families were under constant stress. There was little they could do except pray.

The drills felt pointless. The VHF chatter was just noise. The internet calls home got shorter because what was there to say except “still here”

I filed for sign-off every week. “Crew overdue. Request relief.” Reply: “Trying, Captain. No one is willing to join.”

Materially, we rationed. Fresh provisions ran low. We stretched fuel, water and medicines because resupply meant sailing through contested waters. The internet was patchy. so families got rumours before they got us.

GOOD NEWS

Finally, on May 12, good news came. Relief confirmed. I signed off from the ship on May 14.

Seventy-five days anchored inside a war zone. I should have felt only happiness. And I did. But I also felt sad for my mates still on ship, still awaiting to go home. Leaving part of your crew behind. You don’t celebrate until everyone’s home. I hugged the chief engineer at the gangway. “You’ll be next,” I told him. I hope I was right.

My crew is still stuck. How many others? The world doesn’t know because we don’t report it.

My exit can’t be the end of the story. We need a global protocol to get every trapped ship out—not just the lucky few who find a suitable reliever.

LOOKING BACK

People ask me what it was like to command a merchant vessel during war. It wasn’t like in the movies. There was no hero moment. No dramatic escape.

It was 75 days of waiting. Of drilling. Of watching the sky. Of making decisions that aren’t in any manual: Do we refuse STS? Do we tell the crew the whole truth? Do we keep going when everyone is tired? We also witnessed violation of ceasefire. And false promises by the company.

It showed me how fragile our system is. When the world goes to war, the world still needs oil, food and goods. And someone has to stay with the ship to deliver it. That someone is us: merchant mariners. We are invisible until something goes wrong. Then we are very visible, and very vulnerable.

While 90% of global trade moves through water, it is carried by seafarers who are un - armed, unprotected and unheard. We don’t need sympathy. We need safe corridors, real time intel sharing and the right to refuse unsafe passage without losing our jobs.

Because we carry your trade. We shouldn’t have to carry this risk alone.

We are seafarers, not combatants. Yet, we are caught in the crossfire of geopolitics, our innocence exploited and dignity tested.

The international maritime bodies and programmes meant to safeguard our welfare—the International Maritime Organization (IMO), International Transport Workers’ Federation, Ship Inspection Report Programme, Oil Companies International Marine Forum, International Chamber of Shipping, International Convention for the Prevention of Pollution from Ships (MARPOL) and the Port State Control— must act. It’s time for more than empty statements. Protection, support and accountability are owed to each seafarer. The ocean doesn’t discriminate; neither should we.

We lost several lives in this conflict. My heart goes out to their families. It’s a bitter truth, the world only notices seafarers when a body comes home.

To the companies: Write the safety proto - cols. Make the evacuation plans. Keep exact records. Pay wages on time. And do not ask us to sail when you wouldn’t sail yourself.

To the families: Your loved ones are brave. They are tired. They are coming home.

To my crew: Thank you. For 75 days. For the support. For the shared meals. For not breaking. For choosing to stay.