It took weeks of planning to find a way into the Strait of Hormuz.
We studied maps. Talked through scenarios. How we would get in. How we would get out. Who we could call if something went wrong. And what would happen if we ran into trouble along the way.
Our plan was to reach one of the strait’s narrowest points. Close enough to see, for ourselves, the oil tankers and cargo ships that had been backing up there for weeks.
When a ceasefire between the United States, Israel, and Iran, brokered by Pakistan, came into effect, we made the call. The first round of talks in Islamabad had failed. But the truce was largely holding, and for a moment, the risk felt manageable.
We crossed from one Gulf country into another and eventually found ourselves on a coastal road that felt almost too beautiful for the tensions that lay just offshore.
On one side were jagged mountains rising straight out of the earth, completely bare of vegetation. On the other, clear blue water stretched out into the Gulf.
And then, as the road curved, we saw the ships. Not one or two, but dozens. Sitting still. Waiting.
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