Sailing a Tanker Through a Storm

Storms at sea aren’t just weather. They are experiences that test every sailor’s limits — physical, mental, emotional. And sailing KRITI RUBY through a storm is not just about seamanship; it’s about trust: trust in the ship, in your captain, in your crewmates, and, most importantly, in yourself.

It began subtly. The sky had darkened early that afternoon — not the golden haze of a typical dusk but a dense, brooding grey that deepened with every passing mile. The barometer had been falling steadily all morning, and the weather reports had warned of a low-pressure system building quickly ahead. But no forecast truly prepares you for the moment when the sea decides to rise against you.

By evening, KRITI RUBY was rolling heavily. The first swells were long, smooth, and deceptively gentle. I stood on the bridge, watching the horizon disappear behind the heaving surface of the ocean. The wind moaned around the superstructure, carrying with it the sharp tang of salt spray. Below deck, I could feel the deep thrum of the engines adjusting as the chief engineer worked to balance power with the demands of the weather.

Orders came quickly and clearly from the captain. “Secure all loose equipment. Reduce speed. Adjust course ten degrees to starboard — let’s run with the sea as much as we can.”

There was no panic, no drama, just calm professionalism. And that calm radiated outwards, steadying all of us.

We moved as a team, every hand knowing what needed to be done. On the weather deck, crew members in foul-weather gear checked lashings, tightened cables, stowed tools, and ensured that every hatch was secure. KRITI RUBY herself seemed to brace for the coming assault — groaning slightly as her immense frame twisted in the increasing swell.

By nightfall, the storm was fully upon us. Winds howled at 50 knots, and waves rose like moving cliffs. Rain lashed horizontally, driven so fiercely that it stung through our waterproofs. The sky was black and featureless, obliterating any sense of distance or orientation except for what our instruments could tell us.

Standing watch on the bridge became an exercise in endurance. The deck pitched and rolled violently; I had to brace myself constantly against the helm console. The radar screen flickered as the rain squalls passed over, but it remained our only eye in the darkness.

Every ten minutes, I logged our position, speed, course — and silently counted down the hours left on watch. The captain remained at the bridge almost the entire time, his face impassive but his attention absolute. Occasionally he murmured instructions to adjust our heading slightly, to keep KRITI RUBY taking the waves at the safest possible angle.

But amid the chaos, there was beauty too. From time to time, a lightning bolt would split the sky, illuminating the mountainous waves for a brief, terrifying second. In those flashes, I could see the sheer scale of what we faced: a sea transformed into a restless, living thing, vast beyond comprehension.

I realized then that KRITI RUBY was not fighting the storm — she was part of it. Her design, her strength, her rhythm matched that of the sea itself. She didn’t resist; she flexed, adapted, endured.

It was a lesson every sailor must learn: you cannot conquer the sea. You can only respect it and work with it, never against it.

Below decks, life was suspended. The messroom was empty; no one could eat comfortably in such conditions. Even sleep was impossible for most of the off-watch crew, as the ship rolled through impossible angles, the steel structure creaking and groaning with every massive wave that struck the bow.

But through it all, we carried on. Tasks that seemed mundane on calmer days — securing a door latch, checking a drain — now became critical acts of seamanship. We became vigilant, alert to every sound, every vibration, every shift in KRITI RUBY’s movement.

And slowly, as the night dragged on, the worst of the storm began to pass. The wind eased fractionally; the waves no longer slammed but surged beneath us with a little less fury. By dawn, the first cracks of light revealed a grey and battered sea — still restless, but no longer menacing.

I walked onto the bridge wing at first light. The air smelled fresh and wild. The deck was slick with rain and seawater, and scattered debris told the story of what we had endured. Yet KRITI RUBY was intact, proud and resolute, carrying her scars like badges of honor.

In that quiet morning, with a tired crew gathering their thoughts and returning to routine, I understood something essential about life at sea. A storm doesn’t just test the ship — it tests the sailor’s relationship with the sea itself. It teaches humility, sharpens instinct, forges trust.

And it reinforces an unspoken bond: between ship and crew, between sailor and ocean, between vulnerability and resilience.

KRITI RUBY had carried us through the night, and in doing so, she had taught me not to fear the storm but to respect its power — and to respect my own ability to face it.