Peter’s March 2026 Blog

There are moments when the world remembers the sea.

Not the romanticised sea of postcards and sunsets, but the working ocean – the one that carries almost everything we own, eat, wear or rely upon. It is a remembering that tends to come only in crisis. During the pandemic, when supply chains faltered and crews were stranded beyond endurance, attention briefly turned outward, to the ships that stitch the global economy together. Now, as hostilities escalate in the Arabian Gulf, that attention flickers back again.

In recent weeks, colleagues and I have fielded a steady stream of media enquiries. The questions are often similar, circling around a single, unsettling curiosity: what is it actually like to be on a vessel near the Strait of Hormuz right now?

It is, in truth, a difficult question to answer directly. Security constraints mean that access to crews is limited. The quiet, pastoral presence that MtS people would normally offer – a visit, a conversation over coffee, a listening ear on the quayside – has been replaced, in many cases, by a telephone call or the blink of a WhatsApp message. Support continues, especially for those in the most precarious circumstances, including abandoned vessels. But the human proximity that matters so much is harder to offer.

And yet, through what remains possible, a picture emerges. It is a picture dominated by a single, heavy word: helplessness.

Imagine, for a moment, standing on the deck of a vast steel vessel, its holds packed with cargo that – under the wrong conditions – could become catastrophically volatile. The horizon is not empty but alive with the streaks of missiles, the thud of interceptions, the uneasy choreography of modern warfare playing out in the sky above you. There is no shelter to run to, no quick exit, no safe distance to be gained.

The human body is not designed for such stillness in the face of danger. Deep within us, older than reason, is the instinct to flee or fight. It announces itself in a rush: the quickening pulse, the tightening muscles, the sharpened senses. A command, as ancient as it is urgent: get out.

But at sea, in such moments, there is no “out”.

For seafarers in the Gulf, the body’s alarm continues to sound, but the action it demands is impossible. The result is not simply fear, but a prolonged, grinding strain. Over time, that sustained state of alertness takes its toll: exhaustion, anxiety, a loss of appetite, the slow erosion of both physical and mental resilience.

Layered upon this is another, quieter burden. The familiar ache of separation from home – already a defining feature of life at sea – deepens into something sharper, more uncertain. The question shifts. Not “when will I see them again?” but “will I?”

The small mercies like a video call that usually help seafarers limp through long separations can themselves become fragile in a conflict shaped as much by digital disruption as by physical force. Meanwhile, the responsibilities that weigh on many seafarers do not diminish: families to support, debts to repay, lives at home that depend on their absence being purposeful, yes, but also both temporary and survivable.

In such conditions, the ship itself can begin to feel like an echo chamber. No exit. No flight home. In some cases, no certainty of wages or resupply. Only the steady presence of a handful of others, equally confined, equally aware.

Helplessness.

It is a word we instinctively resist. In a culture that prizes autonomy, control and self-sufficiency, to be helpless is often seen as a kind of failure – a deficit of strength or agency. But perhaps that instinct deserves closer examination.

We are surrounded by narratives of the self-made individual: resilient, independent, needing no one. It is a familiar figure, not least in popular culture – the solitary hero, shaped by adversity, answerable only to themselves. Yet such figures, for all their appeal, are often marked by isolation. Their independence is purchased at the cost of connection.

Real life is rarely so neat. To acknowledge need – to admit that there are moments when we cannot simply act our way out of difficulty – is not a diminishment of dignity. It is, rather, an opening. It creates space for relationships, for mutual care, for the weaving together of lives that are stronger in their interdependence than they would ever be alone.

Helplessness, in this sense, is not merely a condition to be endured. It can also be a call – one that invites a response.

For those who respond, the nature of that response matters. It reflects a belief about what kind of world we are willing to inhabit. Is society simply a loose aggregation of individuals, each pursuing their own ends? Or is it something more deliberate, more humane – a network of responsibilities, attentiveness and care?

The plight of seafarers in the Gulf poses that question with particular clarity. These are individuals who, in ordinary times, remain largely invisible. Their work is essential, but their lives are often overlooked. Now, in a moment of heightened danger, their vulnerability is laid bare.

To recognise their helplessness is not to strip them of dignity. Quite the opposite. It is to see them more fully – to acknowledge both their endurance and their need. And it is to recognise that our response, whether as welfare organisations, governments, businesses or individuals, is not only about meeting an immediate crisis. It is also about shaping the moral texture of the world we share.

What does it mean to stand alongside those who cannot simply step away from danger? What does it mean to ensure that they are not left to face it alone? There are no easy answers. But there are choices: to notice, to care, to act.

As tensions in the Gulf continue to unfold, it is worth holding in mind both those on the ships – waiting, watching, enduring – and those who, like our own MtS staff still working with dedication in the region, remain committed to supporting them, often in difficult and constrained circumstances. Their work may not command headlines. It rarely does. But it matters.

It matters because in the end, the measure of a society is not only how it celebrates strength, but how it responds to vulnerability. And out at sea, beyond the horizon of most of our daily lives, that measure is being quietly tested.