KD PANAH, 14TH SQUADRON PATROL CRAFT (1987)

I joined the Royal Malaysian Navy when patrol craft were still the workhorses of the fleet — small, noisy, salt-caked, and always moving. This is not an official history. It is a deck-level memory of two hulls, two squadrons, and one year that taught me what “small ship, big sea” really meant.

Introduction — The PC Era

In the mid-80s, if you were posted to a Patrol Craft, you understood two things: you would be wet more often than not, and you would see more of Malaysia’s maritime borders than any staff officer in KL. The PCs were old by then, but they were honest ships.

Reference:

Zulheimy Maamor > KD Panah 1987

My first Patrol Craft was a Kris class PC, KD Panah (P42) of the 14th Squadron Patrol Craft (14th PC) based at Tanjung Gelang, Kuantan, Pahang.

KD PANAH was a Kris-class, one of the batch built in the United Kingdom in the 1960s that formed the backbone of RMN’s coastal force for two decades. She was not fast by modern standards, she was loud, and her mess deck leaked when we took green water over the bow — but she could stay out.

I reported to Tg. Gelang, Kuantan. 14th Squadron. Our patch was the EEZ in the South China Sea. The job was mostly invisible: deterrence, presence, boarding. The real traffic then was Thai fishing boats — deep-hulled trawlers that worked our waters at night, lights off, nets down.

Two Commanding Officers in my time: Lt Kdr Zainal Murad and then Lt Zainal Rashid (Diver). Different styles, same seamanship. With Lt Kdr Zainal Murad, I learned how to read a contact not just on radar but by its behaviour — the hesitation before a turn, the sudden change in engine note.

Life on a Small Patrol Craft

Life on a PC is measured in small mercies. A cold drink at Pulau Tioman after a week of ration water. A quiet anchorage at Tak Bai, Thailand, where the smell of Tom Yam from the galley could make the whole upper deck forget we were on patrol.

You learn to sleep through diesel vibration, to shower with a bucket, to write letters that take three weeks to arrive. And you learn that 22 men in 96 feet becomes a family, whether you plan it or not.

Primarily patrolling the Exclusive Economic Zone (EEZ) in the South China Sea, monitoring and curbing encroachments by foreign fishing vessels, particularly illegal fishing activities from Thailand. 

One day we had a near-ramming. We had ordered a Thai boat to stop for boarding. She pretended to comply, then at the last 50 yards put her helm hard over to run between us and our RHIB. The smell of diesel, the shouting, our coxswain pulling us clear. On a PC, there is no margin. You feel everything.

A Thai fishing boat attempted to ram KD Panah when ordered to stop, but swift action by the crew successfully neutralized the threat and detained the vessel. 

REST AND RECREATION

You don’t really “sail” a PC. You live on it. We anchored off islands not for scenery but because the hull needed rest and the crew needed a night without rolling. Pulau Tioman was a favourite — then still quiet, water so clear you could see the anchor chain vanish into blue. We would scrub the hull waterline, swim around the ship, and the coxswain would tell us not to go too far because of current.

The most unexpected run was the border: from Pengkalan Kubur, Kelantan to Tak Bai, Thailand. On paper it was a routine riverine and coastal check. In reality it meant crossing into a different world for half a day. We secured alongside and walked to a Muslim stall near the market. The Tom Yam — sour, salty, with catfish and young tamarind — still sits in my memory as the best I’ve ever had. The stall owner knew we were TLDM. He just smiled and added more rice.

Hari Raya at Sea — South China Sea, 1987
Hari Raya at sea in 1987 fell while we were underway. No ketupat from home, no family. Hari Raya Puasa came while we were at sea. There was no going home. The cook had kept nasi himpit and rendang in the coolbox since Kuantan. We ate after Maghrib on the upper deck, paper plates bending.

“At sunset we fired flares — red and white falling slow over black water. Everyone on deck, in clean jerseys. Nasi himpit, rendang from the galley, eaten with hands that still smelled of grease. Then solat Raya on the aft deck, the ship hove-to, and a silence I have never heard again at sea. No engine, no radio. Just breathing.”

At night, the Captain ordered flare firing — not for distress, but for celebration. Parachute flares hanging like small moons. A white star hung over the South China Sea for forty seconds and we all looked up like children.

Morning was different. We performed Solat Raya on deck. The ship was stopped, drifting. After the takbir, no one spoke loudly. The sea was flat. I remember thinking, this is what fitrah feels like — nothing between you and horizon.

The boy who drifted 29 hours

In that same deployment, the fleet was still talking about LK1 Abdul Jalil Bin Saat from KD SRI SARAWAK. He had fallen overboard — or been washed — and spent 29 hours adrift before being found alive. On a big ship, man overboard is a drill. On a small PC at night, in monsoon transition, it is a different fear altogether. We checked lashings twice after that story. We counted heads three times.

Ref : Utusan TV : Wira Tidak didendang - 29 Jam Terapung di Lautan.

KD Panah (P42), is currently active and back with the Royal Malaysian Navy but it now operates under the new name KD Sri Sarawak (P48).

But for those who served, the smell of bilge and paint stays.

Hj Zulheimy Maamor

Update: 11/9/2026: 2.56 p.m