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Indian Ocean, not so small!

Our oceans are immense, but you don’t truly grasp their scale until you’re sitting on a small boat, bobbing in the middle of one. Emptiness stretches as far as the eye can see—until the Earth’s curvature hides everything beyond the horizon. And believe me, hundreds (even thousands) of miles of that same emptiness lie out of sight.

People often say the Indian Ocean ranks third in size after the Pacific and Atlantic. That’s true by total surface area—but it can feel misleading when you’re actually out there executing a crossing. The Pacific and Atlantic stretch almost uninterrupted from pole to pole, with vast open water north and south. The Indian Ocean, by contrast, is boxed in from the north by the landmasses of southern Asia, so its “usable” expanse for east-west travel—especially in the latitudes most voyagers traverse—feels dramatically wide. From Africa’s eastern coast to Australia’s western edge, you’re looking at roughly 7,600 km of open water in places, putting the traversable width in a league closer to the other giants than the raw area rankings suggest.

Debate might rage over exactly where the Indian Ocean ends and the Red Sea begins, but even if we draw the line, as I do, at the Yemeni island of Socotra, marking the end of the open ocean and the start of the notorious Gulf of Aden (GoA), we still weren’t halfway across our first ocean as we sat at an anchorage in Uligan, Maldives.

Relief at having made it safely here was tempered by the reality: a long way still lay ahead.

After spending most of the day waiting for outbound clearance, we had almost everything in hand—passports stamped, departing crew list approved—but we were missing the one crucial document: the Certificate of Clearance. Without it, no subsequent port or country would let us in.

Our agent blamed a “technical glitch” in the office. We knew better. The day before, we’d bumped into the customs officer on the island by chance, and he’d been blunt: if our agent didn’t sort everything by 10 a.m. tomorrow (today), there would be delays. With Ramadan about to begin, he was heading to another island to stock up on celebratory food and gifts, leaving at 10 a.m. and not returning until evening.

Whatever excuse the agent offered didn’t change the facts. Maldives operates on island time, slow, deliberate, so we simply waited aboard until the clearance paper finally arrived, our green light to weigh anchor and depart Uligan for the 1,800+ nm passage to Djibouti.

What the next fourteen days would bring was anyone’s guess. The forecast suggested light winds for the first several days, meaning we’d be likely motoring much of the way.

Fishing Boats

In all this vastness, it’s easy to fall into the illusion that the ocean is yours alone. Like denim clad homo sapien intruders in a prehistoric world, we couldn’t be more out of place here!

For centuries, these waters have carried trade across borders and sustained life as a vital source of food. In the 21st century, the old wooden dhows, junks, and caravels of legend have given way to massive steel behemoths hauling hundreds of thousands of tons of cargo. Yet the fishing industry here seems frozen in time: weathered wooden boats that look more suited to a museum than the high seas remain the norm.

Young men, likely on meager wages and enduring harsh conditions, are sent out in these fragile vessels with strict orders: don’t return without a full hold. And so, amid the openness, fishing boats of every size appear, employing longlines, bottom or midwater trawls, and gill nets to harvest the sea.

Commercial shipping rarely threatens small yachts; those vessels broadcast AIS signals, making them easy to spot on chart plotters and therefore avoid. Fishing activity is far less predictable. Some boats carry AIS; many do not.

Luna Blu’s radar, like any radar, struggles to detect wooden fishing boats. Wood is a poor reflector of radio waves, so these low-profile craft often vanish into sea clutter, especially compared to large steel ships. During daylight, one of us at the helm keeps a sharp lookout. At night, the risk multiplies.

Even if you spot a fishing boat in time to avoid collision, the real danger is invisible: the long lines and nets trailing far behind, many hundreds of meters astern. It’s a lottery every time.

Night watches can be serene, staring at stars while the ocean’s orchestra of currents, waves, wind in the sails, and rigging slapping the mast sets a steady rhythm. But in the darkness of night, heavy waters, constant vigilance for unlit boats can turn peaceful hours into exhausting ones. We had our watch routine down, yet staying alert was hard work. Rough weather helped: irregular waves and strong wind kept eyelids from drooping. In calm conditions, though, relaxation crept in, and the weight of heavy lids became an enemy.

Relayed messages from boats ahead via a WhatsApp chat group painted a vivid picture: one yacht had found itself tangled in a net, others approached too closely by curious, or opportunistic, fishermen. Perhaps just inquisitive, perhaps hoping for a trade. Innocent in intent, maybe, but in these waters, anxiety runs high for good reason.

What many of us overlooked was the stark divide. These fishing boats hail from far poorer nations than most cruising yachts, and, without question, the crews are far less well-off than anyone aboard a sailboat like ours.

I can’t say for certain about every boat, but seeing Sri Lankan-flagged fleets so far from home shores, it’s reasonable to assume their crews spend consecutive months at sea, no real rest, little to no contact with family, and on pay that likely borders on exploitative. When a bright, shiny yacht glides past, curiosity must be overwhelming. And on a steady diet of seafood, they’d likely trade fresh catch for a can of Coke, cigarettes, or second-hand clothes in a heartbeat.

Pirates, Armed Drones and the Gulf of Aden

If Somali pirates don’t get you, an Iranian-sponsored Houthi operator, perched in a camouflaged shipping container somewhere in hills of Eastern Yemen, joystick in hand, guiding a drone packed with explosives, likely will!

Of course, that’s a gross exaggeration. Somali piracy is largely a distant memory now. The skinnies were busy making a nuisance of themselves from 2006 to 2015, fueled by the Ethiopian invasion of Somalia (with U.S. backing) and the chaos that followed. As attacks surged, a multinational naval coalition stepped in, shipowners ramped up defenses, and armed security teams became standard. The International Maritime Organization (IMO)’s designated High Risk Area (HRA) in the Indian Ocean was finally lifted on January 1, 2023, after years with no reported incidents. But capabilities linger: in March 2024, an Indian warship led a dramatic rescue of the hijacked MV Ruen some 500 km off Somalia, the first successful hijacking in six years, capturing 35 pirates who were later prosecuted, and presumably eradicated, in Mumbai. And in late 2025, a cluster of attempts (boardings and approaches far offshore) reminded everyone that Pirate Action Groups still have motherships, skiffs, and the will to strike when naval attention shifts elsewhere.

The Houthis, though? That’s a different story, and the one that kept me more on edge. Their campaign against shipping in the Red Sea and Gulf of Aden, launched in late 2023 in “solidarity” with Gaza, has involved drones, missiles, and small boats targeting dozens of commercial vessels (some sunk, others damaged, with crew casualties). Yachts aren’t their focus, attacks have centred on larger ships, with geopolitically perceived Israeli links, but the chaos had, until recent times, rerouted global trade and heightened risks for anyone transiting.

My personal worry? Pure paranoia, perhaps. My surname “Benjamin” has a distinctly Jewish ring (though zero Israeli heritage), and if a determined captor dug deeper, he might notice a missing bit of my private anatomy leading a disgruntled fellow having a particularly bad day to jump to conclusions. Nonsense? Maybe. But when you’re out there alone, every shadow on the horizon feels loaded.

Anyone who’s enjoyed Daniel Silva’s Gabriel Allon series of books as much as I have will forgive the wild scenarios spinning through my head. Mossad-level intrigue meets blue-water passage making.

At the time of putting the finishing touches on this chapter, USA & Israeli forces had begun attached Iran and in return Iran started counter-attacking unfriendly parts of the Middles East. Not exactly what we signed up for!

A passage of two halves

The passage was separated into two distinct parts. Not by distance, nor a border threshold, but by weather.

The first leg, from Uligan northeast toward Socotra, delivered near-perfect sailing. For the most part we enjoyed steady 12–15 knot winds on a close reach (apparent 50–60°), flat seas, and an impossibly deep blue ocean that made every mile feel like a gift. For about ten days we settled into an easy rhythm, helm watches, rest, cooking simple meals, cleaning, reading, more rest. All while keeping one eye peeled for fishing boats scattered across the horizon.

Fish on… sort of.

I was deep asleep when the reel screamed to life. Zippy shook me awake. Line was peeling off fast. I stumbled to the rod and inched on some drag. For a few seconds I felt the weight of a large sea creature, then nothing. The fish was gone. Reeling in the rest revealed deep tooth marks gouging the lure, its metal bits bent like tinfoil. I’d love to claim it was a monster, but the truth is simple: I remain the world’s worst fisherman.

A mechanical!

On one of the few occasions where the wind shifted closer to the beam, we put up the Code-0 (Code-Zero). A sail designed for light winds and should be taken in when winds hit 15 knot steady. Al was going well and the delightful sailing continued. But gusts started to peak above 15 knots, and at one stage touched 18knots so it was decided to roll in the Code-0 and revert to the heavier headsail. I was beaten to the task. All of a sudden there was a loud bang.. I looked up to see what had happened. The code-0 had detached from the bow sprit and was now loosely flapping in the stiffening breeze. All hands on deck was the call to try to pull in the sail before more damage was done. Once that was done we then set about surveying what had happened. Sitting on the trampoline was the evidence. A shackle that was holding the furler to the end of the bowsprit had been bent out of shape and parted ways. Most certainly a poor quality shackle, as for it to have failed before anything else in the line on connections I’d like to think is testament to my dyneema splicing skills!!

The second half felt like another ocean entirely. With roughly 700 nm left to Djibouti, we entered the Internationally Recommended Transit Corridor (IRTC)—the designated security lane through the Gulf of Aden, designed to shield shipping from piracy (and, more recently, Houthi threats). Here the wind vanished.

We motored now, nudging along a dead-straight course of 252° True. Commercial traffic framed us: westbound ships to starboard, eastbound to port. Our chartplotter rarely showed a blank screen, always a blip or two of big steel nearby. Warships patrolled, visible day and night, and military aircraft moved overhead on constant surveillance sweeps. Their focus was the merchant fleet, not a small sailing catamaran, but the proximity brought us real comfort.

Fishing fleets couldn’t operate amid this density of traffic, so the constant lookout vanished. Onboard tension eased, routines relaxed. For at least four days we motored through mill-pond seas under clear blue skies, the boat’s reflection shimmering below like a mirror. The sunsets were otherworldly, vibrant, layered explosions of color that I photographed every evening and sent ashore to family. They looked stunning on screen, but no lens could capture the raw, immersive beauty of standing on deck as the sky caught fire.

Colder, drier!

Our steady northeast progress brought incrementally cooler nights—and with them, an entirely new dynamic between me and the boat.

Until now, we’d been perfectly in sync in Thailand’s tropical waters. Hot, humid days and warm, sticky nights where the air sometimes felt like a wet blanket. No need for extra layers. But here, as we climbed north, passing through 11, then 12, then 13 north, the chill incrementally crept in. Helm watches turned brisk, we both started bundling up with our doonas draped over us. Zippy feels the cold more keenly than I and so she layered on jumpers, long pants, socks, and still hugged the doona tighter, cocooned against the fresh bite in night air.

We were marching steadily north. My daily position reports, sent to family ashore and to the security ops monitoring these waters, charted our advance: latitudes creeping into the 10° realm, then 11’s, 12’s and 13’s. I had to remind myself that The Suez Canal entrance, gateway to the Med, sits way up in the 30s… so the nights would only get cooler from here, the days presumably drier and dustier as we neared the arid heart of the Middle East.

Djibouti

As we approached the section of the IRTC whereby it turns to the right and onwards up into the Red Sea, it was our cue to continue directly ahead, traversing out of the corridor and then onwards for a further 100nm to the port of Djibouti.

Now back out of the corridor, we had to quickly re-adjust our awareness posture. 4 days of relative relaxation was immediately interrupted by a fishing boat passing abeam at a distance that allowed us to see the men aboard, who were gleefully waving at us, but not showing any interest otherwise. We were back in the real world and had to reset!

As the sun rose on our final day at sea for this passage, we could make out the port of Djibouti ahead, with a myriad of bulkers sitting at anchorage awaiting a vacant berth to come and load or discharge a cargo, we maneuvered in amongst this anchored fleet of vessel’s, then turned 90 to starboard and made the last mile to the small anchorage, in amongst the shipping port and it’s activities. And then, at 10am local time, having ensured the anchor was secured to the sea floor, we turn off engines.

The Indian Ocean and the Gulf of Aden had been crossed. The Red Sea was still ahead, and for that we must be on a constant vigil, but the wave of relief that overcame us in the hear and now was palpable. Ask me 12 months ago if i could cross an ocean, and I’d likely have braved a “yes” but inwardly scoffed. Yet here we were were, the first of 3 oceans done. 3,554nm completed. Plenty more to go of course, but this is some accomplishment for us!

At dawn on our final day at sea, Djibouti materialized on the horizon. A low, hazy sprawl backed by distant hills. Ahead lay a forest of anchored bulk carriers, patiently waiting for berths to load or discharge cargo. We threaded through them carefully, then swung 90° to port and then the last mile into the small yacht anchorage, tucked amid the bustling commercial port.

By 10 a.m. local time, the anchor was set firm onto the seabed. Engines off. Silence settled over the boat for the first time in weeks.

The Indian Ocean and Gulf of Aden were behind us, crossed! The Red Sea lay ahead, demanding constant vigilance in these uncertain times, but in that moment, relief flooded through us like a warm tide. Palpable, overwhelming.

Twelve months earlier, if you’d asked whether I could cross an ocean, I’d have said “yes” out loud… while inwardly scoffing at the sheer audacity. Yet here we were: first of three oceans done. 3,554 nautical miles under the keel. A huge milestone for us—undeniable accomplishment amid the vastness.

Plenty more ahead, of course. But for now, we let the feeling sink in. We’d done it