What Happens When You Get the Worst News at Sea

It was 2022. My dad had been having complications with his health, but I had no idea things were about to get so bad, until it was too late.

I was in the middle of a two-week charter, sailing somewhere remote in eastern Indonesia, with patchy-to-nonexistent signal and guests who expected joy, energy, and entertainment.

What I got instead was a sucker punch straight to the heart: my father had passed away and I only found out about it a week later.

I’ve written a lot about what it's like to work on a boat in Indonesia: the crazy beauty, the marine magic, the strange snacks I’ve eaten.

But this post?

This one is about something else entirely.

It’s about grief. Real, raw, inconvenient grief.

The kind that comes when you’re floating in paradise, surrounded by people who don’t yet know that your world has just fallen apart.

Living on a Boat: The Work-Life Disconnection Is Real

As romantic as it sounds to work on a boat and sail through turquoise waters, there’s one hard truth no one tells you about: when something goes wrong at home, you might not find out until it’s too late.

The day I learned about my dad’s passing, we had just sailed past Fakfak (yes, that’s the real name) and miracle of miracles my phone found a sliver of signal.

Notifications exploded. WhatsApp messages, Facebook DMs, missed calls.

Someone had written, “So sorry for your loss,” in a comment, and I froze. A second later, a call came through. It was my dear friend Anastasia.

Her voice cracked as she gently asked, “Have you heard?”

I said nothing. I just asked, “Is it Mom or Dad?”

“It’s your dad,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

The call dropped shortly after, as we passed out of the signal zone and back into silence. I was on the aft top deck, behind the bridge.

It was nighttime and the sky was bursting with stars, an insult, really, for a moment so dark.

I just stood there, gripping my phone, staring at the ocean, trying to decide if I should throw myself overboard.

The thought was horrifyingly clear: I just want to die with him.

But then a hand touched my hair gently.

It was Rizal, our chief officer.

He didn’t say anything, just looked into my eyes. And that was enough. I broke.

I sobbed, uncontrollably. It was like the ocean had poured straight out of me.

Rizal held me. He said Anastasia had called him too. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. That’s all I needed. Not answers, not advice. Just that quiet recognition.

Holding It Together When You’re Falling Apart

Eventually, I realized I hadn’t done the evening briefing yet. Yep, the guest briefing. The show must go on.

I wiped my swollen eyes, washed my face, and went downstairs to the main dining area.

I gave the world’s shortest, most half-hearted rundown of the next day’s plan and told the guests I wasn’t feeling well.

“If you need anything,” I said, “please talk to the chief stewardess.”

Then I disappeared into my cabin, locked the door, and cried until the sun came up.

Why I Didn’t Want Anyone to Know

I asked Rizal not to tell the crew or the guests. I didn’t want pity. I didn’t want to ruin the trip for everyone else. I didn’t want people to treat me like I was broken.

There was no chance to fly home immediately. We were days from the nearest airport.

And even if I could catch a chartered flight out of Fakfak, what would I do?

My dad had already been buried a week ago.

Flying home wouldn’t bring him back.

So I stayed.

When Your Captain Goes Rogue (With Good Intentions?)

A couple of days before the charter ended, I was starting to feel more like myself again. My smile was genuine. I was laughing with the crew.

The grief was still there, but I had found a way to hold it gently instead of letting it crush me.

And then, surprise!, the captain announced it to everyone.

He told the crew and the guests what had happened.

Against. My. Will.

Now, I know he meant well. Maybe he thought I needed support.

Maybe he thought it was respectful.

But I wish he hadn’t done it.

Because what followed was a parade of hugs, condolences, sympathetic glances.

And every time someone said, “I’m so sorry,” I wanted to scream. Not because I wasn’t grateful but because I had JUST gotten to the point of not crying every five minutes.

Now I was back at square one.

It took every ounce of strength not to fall apart in front of everyone.

 What saved me, again, was the crew.

They didn’t say much. They didn’t bombard me with words. They sat with me. Hugged me. Gently brushed my hair. Let me feel everything I needed to feel.

And when the trip ended, the office arranged for a replacement so I could fly home with the guests.

It was the right call.

The Grief You Carry at Sea

There’s this quiet occupational hazard when you work at sea: you may not get to say goodbye.

You might miss the milestones. The birthdays. The graduations. The funerals.

When people romanticize life on a yacht, they don’t think about that part.

They don’t think about how hard it is to feel so far from home when it matters most.

They don’t think about the heartbreak of having to keep smiling because the guests paid a lot of money for this trip, and your grief isn’t their problem.

But here’s what I’ve learned: sailors are some of the toughest people I know. And the kindest.

We carry our pain in our pockets and still show up to serve.

We learn how to cry into our pillows quietly and then hand you your coffee with a smile.

That’s why I will always have the deepest respect for my fellow seafarers, especially those who work months away from home.

This job teaches you resilience. It teaches you compartmentalization. It teaches you the value of small comforts, like a hand on your back or a glass of water when your throat’s been burning from tears.

So, What Do You Do When You Lose Someone at Sea?

You survive. One breath at a time.

You let the ocean hold you.

You let the stars remind you that someone you love is out there, watching.

You let your crew become your second family.

And when you’re ready, you talk about it. You write it down. You remember.

Like I’m doing now.

Grief Isn’t Cancelled Just Because You’re Working

To everyone who's ever had to put on a smile while their heart is breaking, to everyone who’s ever cried in the crew cabin or hid in the dry store just to scream silently into a towel, I see you.

Being at sea teaches you that life keeps moving, even when yours feels like it’s frozen.

And if you’re lucky, there’s someone on deck who’ll quietly hold your hand and say, “I’m so sorry.”

And somehow, that makes all the difference.