A few days after the end of the Yom Kippur War, two Dabur-class patrol boats patrolled the Milan passage to ensure it wasn’t mined by the Egyptians. The wind was blowing strongly, raising waves that tossed us around violently and gave no rest.

In the evening, we were informed that the “Patria” (a tanker) would pass northward through the Milan passage with a pilot on board to test the route. At the northern turning point, before changing course to 290, the pilot was to transfer to my Dabur so I could return him to Sharm El Sheikh the following morning at dawn.

The whole operation didn’t seem right to me, because in such a storm, such an operation—especially at night—is a recipe for trouble. I voiced my opinion over the radio, but… who am I? Why would anyone listen?

At the appointed hour, in the middle of the night, I saw the silhouette approaching me and realized that I would indeed have to perform the maneuver of my life. Maybe only if the pilot was truly brave, he’d be able to jump from one vessel to the other without first plunging into the stormy sea.

I remembered a story my roommate, Lieutenant B., once told me about an approach he made to a ship passing through the Tiran Straits on its way south. The captain had promised to leave a crate of whiskey for the commander “Shark” as thanks for help he received from a Dabur patrol boat. The captain had lost his way the night before entering the straits northbound toward Aqaba, and a Dabur was sent to guide him.

Eilat radar received orders to track the ship and report to sector HQ when it departed Aqaba heading south toward the straits. A Dabur under Lieutenant B.’s command was sent to intercept and collect the gift. The Dabur approached the ship with fenders out along the hull, just as it would when docking at a pier. The ship continued sailing at slow speed. A sort of venturi effect formed between the two vessels, and the inevitable ‘boooing’ came quickly—the impact, accompanied by the popping of the fenders, which had been inflated until the moment of contact and then deflated immediately after. I understood that this was not the right way, and I would have to do the maneuver differently.

By the way: the crate was delivered, and back at base, the “Shark” had a crate of whiskey. Lieutenant B., however, had an issue with the supply officer over the burst fenders.

The wind was strong, and the high waves made the tanker roll. For the Dabur, they caused a rise-and-fall motion, each vessel moving on a different rhythm. We deployed fenders, and the bow crew, with open life jackets, prepared for what was to come. It was dark, and the ship, moving slowly, turned on deck lights that momentarily blinded us. Engine smoke and water spray from the sides of both vessels added to the hellish atmosphere surrounding us. The diesel smoke mixed with salty sea spray, hitting our faces, getting into our mouths, ears, and eyes. We were rising and falling with a significant height difference—around four or five meters.

I began the approach perpendicular to the ship, aiming to reach a ladder that hung from its side at a 45-degree angle. As I moved, I studied the relative motion between the vessels and saw a possibility—that at one particular moment, both vessels might be momentarily still in relation to one another.

I focused entirely on the bollard at the Dabur’s bow and on the pilot’s legs, already bent over the ladder. I approached very carefully, trusting that the pilot—experienced in transferring between ships at sea—would seize the moment when the movement between vessels ceased.

In that exact moment, all at once, the pilot leapt onto the Dabur, which had just started descending from the crest of a wave. The bow crew grabbed him before he could float away and brought him to the bridge. He was a little pale—but dry.

The pilot shook my hand and praised the maneuver and the crew who brought him aboard safely. The vessels hadn’t touched, and the fenders were returned to the ship’s hold intact.

Later, quietly, he told me I had done the impossible, and he hadn’t believed he’d be able to cross in such sea conditions.

“You’re all crazy,” he said. I smiled in agreement—as if I hadn’t known that already.

Oil Tanker “Patria”

Map of the Pilot’s drop point