The oh so smooth Arabian Sea barely rocks our ship the Constellation, as we make our way toward the Gulf of Aden or perhaps a more apt moniker, Pirates’ cove. We left Muscat, Oman yesterday around four in the afternoon to commence a five day journey which will take us past Aden to the Red Sea, then onward to Jordan on the Gulf of Aqaba. No sooner had we set sail when we received a written caution from the ship’s Captain. The letter was enough to shiver the timbers of any old salt. 

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Nasty Somalia pirates ply the waters for much of our route from Yemen and Somalia in the Gulf of Aden to northern Eritrea, a good ways north, in the Red Sea. Prior to climbing aboard we knew we’d be sailing in buccaneer waters, but had little sense of the immense area it covered. Three full days and nights of bowel-quivering apprehension; eyes constantly peeled for the feared black and white, Jolly Roger. 

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Some of the decrees and hi-lights from the Captain: All open decks - right up to deck 11 - would be off-limits from dusk to dawn. For those with balconies - like we have - blinds should be drawn and balcony lights turned off when not in use. “When not in use?” That one sounds more like a pleasant request than a decree, given the gravity of our plight. And then there’s the “Safe Haven” instructions regarding where to go in the event of a pirate attack. Here’s one that scared the beJesus out of us: When under attack we’re to stay away from the windows and move to the centre of the ship. If a band of pirates have the wherewithal to climb eleven floors along the outside of a fast-moving ship just to come aboard the bloody thing what good would gathering together away from the windows be? I fired off a letter to Customer Relations asking if we should suck our thumbs while we wait for the pirates.   

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The following morning just before sunrise, Elenka and I snuck our way onto the main deck and watched the sentries studying the seas with binoculars. “To Hell with this. We need to formulate a plan,” Elenka shouted, blowing our cover and scaring me half to death. 

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My task is to assemble a group of nervous old sailors; Elenka is organizing the women-folk. Today, the lads and I will practice our swordsmanship skills with broken chair legs, scrounged from old surplus deck furniture. Meanwhile, Elenka and the gals will be busy making eye patches and experimenting with teeth blackening formulas to make us appear to be pirates ourselves — a ‘who’s who’ confusion tactic should we actually be attacked. And last but not least we’ve pilfered small quantities of rum which we’ll place at strategic points of ship entry. It’s felt that if the pirates are drunk before the fight we’ll have a better chance. 

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If anyone in the vicinity receives this message a supply of real swords, black cloth for the eye patches, tar for teeth blackening, and most importantly, kegs of rum, would be greatly appreciated.     

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Last night, with our balcony door ajar, we were about to doze off when we heard British men and women doing a catchy chant:

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“We’ll not be buggered or raped, 

We’ll not be buggered or raped, 

High ho the merry - o, 

We’ll not be buggered or raped.”

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“Comrades in action,” Elenka said with a comforting smile.