If the pirates fed their goats, maybe the hostages got fed.
From a spare room in Nairobi, a retired British colonel named John Steed quietly took on the work that governments and shipping companies refused to do — negotiating the freedom of 191 sailors abandoned to Somali pirates between 2008 and 2012. A man who grew up playing pirates along the Cornish coast found himself, in his sixties and managing a heart condition, carrying ransom money in the boot of his car and receiving midnight calls from men who had survived years of starvation and torture. His story sits at the intersection of institutional failure and individual conscience — a reminder that the forgotten are not always beyond reach, so long as someone chooses to remember them.
- At the height of the Somali piracy crisis, 700 sailors were held captive on 30 ships, many of them poor men from nations whose governments simply looked away.
- Three cargo vessels were left to rot for years — their crews beaten, starved, and occasionally executed — while employers refused ransoms and the international community offered silence.
- Steed, with no negotiation training and no institutional backing, began raising funds from his spare room and personally ferrying million-dollar ransoms, nearly dying of a heart attack weeks into the mission before pressing on.
- The most harrowing case, the Albedo, ended with the ship sinking, 15 people dead, and the remaining hostages freed only after a captive crew member befriended the pirate commander and convinced him to drug the guards and help them escape.
- The United Nations ultimately terminated its relationship with Steed over the ransom payments, even as his approach had almost certainly prevented military interventions that would have cost far more lives.
- Piracy has since receded, but Steed continues working — now focused on land-based kidnappings — while the pirate networks have simply migrated into smuggling and arms supply.
John Steed grew up along the Helford River in Cornwall, playing pirates in the same creeks that inspired Daphne du Maurier. Decades later, after Sandhurst and a career as a colonel in the Royal Corps of Signals, he found himself in Nairobi confronting real ones — and the silence of every institution that should have acted before him.
Between 2008 and 2012, Somali pirates seized roughly 2,000 people at sea. Three cargo ships — from Malaysia, Thailand, and Taiwan — were hijacked and effectively abandoned. Their employers refused to pay. Their governments declined to intervene. The crews were beaten, starved, and sometimes killed. Steed, retired and managing a heart condition, learned of these men and decided that someone had to try. He had no negotiation experience, no funding, and no office — only a spare room and a willingness to begin. He raised ransom money, coordinated releases, and eventually drove million-dollar payments in the boot of his car. A near-fatal heart attack struck weeks in. He recovered and continued.
The case of the Albedo became the defining ordeal. Seized in November 2010 with 23 crew members, the ship spent nearly two years drifting off the Somali coast. One sailor was murdered and stored in the ship's freezer. In 2012, the deteriorating vessel sank in rough seas, killing eleven pirates and four hostages. The survivors were brought ashore and held under armed guard. Steed entered negotiations knowing that military rescue would almost certainly end in a massacre.
The solution came from within. A mobile phone was smuggled to an Indian crew member named Aman Kumar, who had spent months building trust with his captors — sharing khat, absorbing their world. He approached the lead pirate commander with a quiet offer: $200,000 for himself, in exchange for helping the hostages escape. The commander agreed, supplied sleeping pills to drug the guards, and the second escape attempt succeeded. Steed received a call in the night: they were free. He scrambled to extract them to a remote airstrip, where he met them in person for the first time — thin and traumatized, but alive.
In total, Steed secured the release of 191 hostages from three vessels. Most were men from poor countries, invisible to the world. The UN, unable to be associated with ransom payments, terminated its relationship with him. The pirate commander who had helped the Albedo crew escape was shot dead in Mogadishu months later. Steed has since helped free the last merchant sailors taken at sea in 2019 and continues working on land-based kidnappings in the region. He still owns a home on the Helford River, and hopes one day to retire there — where the only pirates will be fictional ones.
John Steed grew up on the Helford River in Cornwall, playing pirates among the creeks and inlets that inspired Daphne du Maurier's novels. He was a boy then, imagination running wild. Decades later, after training at Sandhurst and serving as a colonel in the Royal Corps of Signals, he found himself confronting actual pirates—not in fiction, but in the waters off East Africa, where the stakes were measured in human lives.
Between 2008 and 2012, Somali pirates seized roughly 2,000 people at sea. Three cargo ships in particular—one from Malaysia, one from Thailand, one from Taiwan—were hijacked and left to rot. The crews were beaten, starved, tortured, and sometimes executed. Their employers refused to pay ransoms. Their governments looked away. The hostages became invisible.
By his sixties, living in Nairobi as a retired military attaché and managing a heart condition, Steed learned of these abandoned men and decided to act. He had no experience in hostage negotiation. He had no funding. He had a spare room and a determination to try. From that room, he began raising ransom money and coordinating releases, eventually ferrying million-dollar payments in the boot of his car. Friends warned him the work would break him. Weeks into the operation, a near-fatal heart attack nearly proved them right. He recovered and continued anyway.
The case of the Albedo illustrated both the horror and the ingenuity required. The cargo ship was seized in November 2010 with 23 crew members aboard. For nearly two years, they languished off the Somali coast. One was murdered. In 2012, the vessel—in poor condition—sank in rough seas. Eleven pirates and four hostages drowned. The survivors were taken ashore to the town of Camara and held under armed guard. This is where Steed entered the negotiation, caught between the impossible: he could not pay what the pirates demanded, yet any military rescue attempt would likely end in bloodshed.
The breakthrough came through an act of psychological precision. A mobile phone was smuggled to Aman Kumar, one of the Indian crew members. Aman had watched a fellow sailor shot dead and placed in the ship's freezer—a body that would remain there after the vessel sank. Rather than despair, Aman befriended his captors, chewing khat with them, building trust. During one session, he approached the lead pirate commander with a simple proposition: take $200,000 for himself, cut the others out, help the hostages escape. The commander agreed. He supplied sleeping pills to drug the guards. The first escape attempt failed when the pills didn't work. The second succeeded, and Steed received a call in the middle of the night: "We're free." He scrambled to extract them from the Somali interior to a remote airstrip, where he finally saw them in person—thin, traumatized, but alive and smiling.
Steed's work eventually secured the release of 191 hostages from three hijacked vessels. When piracy peaked in 2012, 700 sailors were being held on 30 ships. Most were from poor countries, forgotten by their own governments. Steed specialized in these men—the ones no one else would help. Some had been captive for years. Many bore the marks of torture and starvation. "If the pirates fed their goats, maybe the hostages got fed," Steed explained. "If there was no food for the goats, the hostages didn't get fed."
The UN, however, did not celebrate his work. Officials summoned him to what they called a "no coffee" meeting—a termination. They could not be associated with ransom payments, they said, even though Steed's negotiations had prevented military operations that would have killed hostages and captors alike. The pirate commander who had helped the Albedo crew escape, Ali Jabeen, was shot dead in Mogadishu months later, possibly for his betrayal.
Today, Somali piracy has largely ceased. Armed security on merchant vessels proved an effective deterrent. Steed, now a full-time maritime security consultant, helped free the last merchant sailors taken at sea in 2019—Iranian hostages. He has since turned his attention to land-based kidnappings in the region, working to free a German nurse and two Cuban doctors still being held. The pirate kingpins have moved into smuggling and supplying weapons to militant groups. Steed remains in Kenya with his wife Rose, a Kenyan national who has helped welcome and repatriate the hostages he freed. He owns a home on the Helford River, not far from Frenchman's Creek, and dreams of one day retiring there—where the only pirates he encounters will be in the pages of a novel.
Notable Quotes
There was a growing bunch of hostages who were getting left behind because of unscrupulous ship owners or because countries didn't care about their own crewmen.— John Steed, to the Daily Express
I don't care who I have to deal with. All I care about is getting the hostages out and back to their families.— John Steed
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why did governments and shipping companies simply abandon these people? Was it purely financial?
It was partly that, yes—the companies didn't want to pay ransoms, and some governments genuinely didn't care about crews from poorer nations. But there was also a policy dimension. Paying ransoms was seen as feeding piracy, encouraging more attacks. So the hostages became collateral damage in a larger strategic calculation.
And Steed had no official backing at all?
None. He was operating entirely outside any government or UN framework. That's actually why the UN later terminated their relationship with him—they couldn't be seen endorsing ransom payments, even though his approach saved lives that a military operation would have killed.
The story of Aman Kumar convincing the pirate commander is extraordinary. How did he know that would work?
He didn't, really. But he'd spent months with these men, studying them, understanding what motivated them. He knew the commander was ambitious, that he wanted to profit. Aman essentially offered him a way to get rich while appearing to help. It was a gamble, but it was based on genuine human insight.
Did Steed ever regret the work, especially after the heart attack?
Not according to what he's said. He returned to it immediately. For him, the question wasn't whether the work was worth the risk—it was whether those 191 people were worth saving. He answered that question with his actions.
What happened to the hostages after they were freed?
They were repatriated to their home countries. Steed's wife Rose helped with that process. Some were in desperate physical condition—very thin, traumatized. But they got to go home. That was the point.
And now he's still doing this work, just on land instead of at sea?
Yes. The piracy problem largely solved itself through armed security on ships. But kidnapping for ransom moved ashore. Steed is still in Kenya, still negotiating, still trying to bring people home.