The Voyage Begins
1 Now when it was decided that we should sail to Italy, they handed Paul and some other prisoners over to a centurion named Julius, of the Augustan Cohort.
2 And embarking on a ship from Adramyttium that was about to sail to ports along the coast of the province of Asia, we put to sea. Aristarchus, a Macedonian from Thessalonica, was with us.
3 The next day we put in at Sidon, and Julius treated Paul with kindness and allowed him to go to his friends and receive their care.
4 And putting to sea from there, we sailed under the lee of Cyprus because the winds were against us.
5 And when we had sailed through the open sea along the coast of Cilicia and Pamphylia, we arrived at Myra in Lycia.
6 And there the centurion found an Alexandrian ship sailing for Italy and put us aboard it.
7 And sailing slowly for a good many days, and arriving with difficulty off Cnidus, since the wind would not allow us to go further, we sailed under the lee of Crete, off Salmone.
8 And coasting along it with difficulty, we came to a place called Fair Havens, near the town of Lasea.
σπείρης Σεβαστῆς (speirēs Sebastēs) — v.1: The “Augustan Cohort” (Cohors Augusta) — this was likely an auxiliary cohort that served as a liaison unit, possibly tasked with escorting prisoners and dispatches between the provinces and Rome. The name “Augustan” (Sebastē, the Greek equivalent of Augustus) was an honorific given to units that had distinguished themselves. Inscriptional evidence confirms the existence of auxiliary cohorts with this name in the Syrian and Palestinian region.
v.1: The “we” narration resumes, indicating Luke is present on the voyage. This is the longest sustained “we” section in Acts, running through the entire voyage and shipwreck. The detail and precision of the nautical account have long been recognized as consistent with eyewitness participation. The nineteenth-century naval historian James Smith wrote an entire book (The Voyage and Shipwreck of St. Paul, 1848) demonstrating that every nautical detail in Acts 27 is accurate and consistent with the navigation of the central Mediterranean.
v.2: The ship from Adramyttium (a port in Mysia, on the northwest coast of Asia Minor) was a coastal vessel, not an open-sea grain ship. It would carry them along the Asian coast to a point where they could transfer to an Italy-bound vessel. Aristarchus, last seen being seized by the Ephesian mob (19:29), is still with Paul — a remarkable display of loyalty.
v.3: Julius’s kindness to Paul is noteworthy. Allowing a prisoner to visit friends ashore was a considerable concession, suggesting Paul’s Roman citizenship and personal bearing had earned the centurion’s respect. The word φιλανθρώπως (philanthrōpōs, “with kindness,” literally “with love of humanity”) characterizes Julius positively from the start. He will prove a significant figure throughout the voyage.
vv.4–8: The sailing details are technically precise. Sailing “under the lee of Cyprus” means passing on its east and north side, using the island as a windbreak against the prevailing westerly winds. The ship then follows the coast of Cilicia and Pamphylia (southern Turkey), exploiting the land breeze and coastal counter-currents that run eastward even when the main wind is from the west. This was the standard technique for sailing westward in the Mediterranean in autumn. At Myra in Lycia, they transfer to an Alexandrian grain ship — one of the huge vessels that transported Egyptian grain to Rome. These were among the largest ships in the ancient world, carrying up to 1,200 tons of cargo.
v.7: Cnidus is the southwestern tip of Asia Minor, the point where the protective coastline ends and the ship would need to turn west across open sea toward Italy. But the northwest wind (τοῦ ἀνέμου μὴ προσεῶντος, “the wind not allowing”) forces them south toward Crete instead. From here forward, the voyage is a series of improvisations against unfavorable weather. Salmone is the eastern cape of Crete.
The Debate at Fair Havens
9 Since a considerable time had passed and the voyage was now dangerous because even the Fast had already gone by, Paul advised them,
10 saying, “Men, I can see that the voyage is going to be with damage and great loss — not only of the cargo and the ship, but also of our lives.”
11 But the centurion was more persuaded by the pilot and the ship’s owner than by what Paul was saying.
12 And since the harbor was unsuitable for wintering, the majority decided to put to sea from there, hoping somehow to reach Phoenix, a harbor of Crete facing southwest and northwest, and to spend the winter there.
τὴν νηστείαν (tēn nēsteian) — v.9: “The Fast” — this is the Day of Atonement (Yom Kippur), which falls in September or October depending on the Jewish lunar calendar. In the year most scholars assign to this voyage (AD 59 or 60), Yom Kippur would have fallen in early October. Ancient maritime practice considered sailing after September 15 to be risky and after November 11 to be suicidal. The sailing season was effectively closed. Luke’s use of a Jewish calendar marker to establish the danger is a subtle touch — he is writing for an audience that includes both Jewish and Gentile readers and gives the one calendar reference that will orient both groups.
v.10: Paul’s warning is presented as practical advice (θεωρῶ, “I can see” or “I perceive”), not prophetic revelation. He is not claiming divine insight here but the judgment of an experienced traveler. By this point Paul had survived at least three shipwrecks (2 Corinthians 11:25, written before this voyage), making him arguably the most experienced sailor on board. The professionals overrule him — but the prisoner’s instinct will prove right.
κυβερνήτῃ καὶ τῷ ναυκλήρῳ (kubernētē kai tō nauklērō) — v.11: The “pilot” (κυβερνήτης, from which we get “governor” and “cybernetics”) was the helmsman/navigator. The “ship’s owner” (ναύκληρος) was the owner or charterer responsible for the cargo. Both had financial incentives to press on: an Alexandrian grain ship carrying its cargo to Rome was a high-value commercial enterprise, and delays cost money. The centurion, as the senior Roman military officer aboard, had the authority to make the final decision. He sides with the professionals over the prisoner — a reasonable decision that will prove catastrophic.
v.12: Fair Havens was an open roadstead, not a proper harbor — inadequate shelter for a winter anchorage. The majority vote to attempt a short coastal hop (about 40 miles) to Phoenix, a better harbor further along the south coast of Crete. This seems like a modest, reasonable plan. They will not make it.
The Storm at Sea
13 Now when a gentle south wind began to blow, thinking they had achieved their purpose, they weighed anchor and began sailing close along the shore of Crete.
14 But not long after, a violent wind called the Euraquilo rushed down from the island.
15 When the ship was caught in it and could not face the wind, we gave way and were driven along.
16 Running under the lee of a small island called Cauda, we were barely able to get the ship’s boat under control.
17 After hoisting it up, they used cables to undergird the ship. And fearing they would run aground on the Syrtis, they lowered the sea anchor and so were driven along.
18 And since we were being violently battered by the storm, the next day they began jettisoning cargo.
19 And on the third day, with their own hands, they threw the ship’s gear overboard.
20 When neither sun nor stars appeared for many days, and no small storm was pressing upon us, all hope of our being saved was finally abandoned.
v.13: The gentle south wind is a cruel trick of Mediterranean weather. It seemed to confirm the decision to sail — a south wind was exactly what they needed for the westward coastal hop to Phoenix. But it was a local, temporary phenomenon. The real weather system was about to arrive.
ἄνεμος τυφωνικός ὁ καλούμενος Εὐρακύλων (anemos typhōnikos ho kaloumenos Eurakylōn) — v.14: The “Euraquilo” — a hybrid word combining Greek Εὖρος (Euros, the east wind) and Latin Aquilo (the north wind). This was a northeast gale, what modern Mediterranean sailors call a gregale — a ferocious storm pattern that sweeps down from Crete toward North Africa. The word τυφωνικός (typhōnikos, from which we get “typhoon”) means “of hurricane force.” Luke uses the sailors’ own technical term for the wind, another sign of eyewitness presence.
ἀντοφθαλμεῖν (antophthalmein) — v.15: “Could not face the wind” — literally “could not look the wind in the eye.” This vivid nautical term means the ship could not hold its heading against the gale. Ancient square-rigged ships were poor at sailing into the wind; once a storm of this force hit, there was no option but to run before it. The crew has lost control. The ship is now at the mercy of the sea.
v.16: Cauda (modern Gavdos) is a small island about 23 miles south of Crete. In its brief lee they manage to haul aboard the ship’s dinghy, which had been towed astern and was now being swamped. The phrase “barely able” (μόλις ἰσχύσαμεν) tells us how bad things already were — even recovering the boat was a desperate struggle.
ὑποζωννύντες τὸ πλοῖον (hypozōnnyntes to ploion) — v.17: “Used cables to undergird the ship” — this technique, called “frapping” (Latin: hypozomata), involved passing heavy ropes or cables under the hull and winching them tight to prevent the planking from working loose in heavy seas. Ancient ships were constructed with mortise-and-tenon joints, and the hull could literally pull apart in severe conditions. This emergency procedure is well attested in ancient sources and continued to be used into the age of sail.
τὴν Σύρτιν (tēn Syrtin) — v.17: The Syrtis was the great sandbank off the coast of Libya (modern Gulf of Sidra), dreaded by ancient sailors as a ship graveyard. Being driven southwestward from Crete by a northeast gale, the Syrtis was directly in their path. The crew’s fear was entirely justified. Lowering the “sea anchor” (τὸ σκεῦος, literally “the gear” or “the equipment” — probably a drift anchor or sea drogue) would slow their southwestward drift and change their angle of drift to a more westerly course, away from the African coast.
vv.18–19: The escalating desperation is told in three stages across three days. Day one: driven helplessly. Day two: they throw cargo overboard to lighten the ship. Day three: they throw the ship’s rigging and equipment overboard with their own hands (αὐτόχειρες, “with their own hands” — suggesting that even the crew, not just laborers, are working frantically). For an Alexandrian grain ship, jettisoning the cargo meant dumping tons of wheat into the sea — an enormous financial loss and a last resort.
v.20: “All hope of our being saved was finally abandoned” — Luke switches to the first person plural: “our being saved.” He was there. He felt the despair. Neither sun nor stars means no navigation is possible — in an age before compasses, celestial navigation was the only way to know where you were. They are lost in a hurricane, with no cargo, no gear, no idea where they are, and no hope. This is the nadir of the entire voyage narrative.
Paul’s Encouragement
21 Since they had gone a long time without food, Paul stood up in their midst and said, “Men, you should have followed my advice and not set sail from Crete, and spared yourselves this damage and loss.
22 Yet now I urge you to take heart, for there will be no loss of life among you, only of the ship.
23 For this very night an angel of the God to whom I belong and whom I serve stood by me,
24 saying, ‘Do not be afraid, Paul. You must stand before Caesar. And behold, God has granted you all those who are sailing with you.’
25 Therefore take heart, men, for I believe God that it will turn out exactly as I have been told.
26 But we must run aground on some island.”
v.21: Paul’s “I told you so” is often criticized as unhelpful, but in the ancient rhetorical context it serves a specific function: it establishes Paul’s credibility as an advisor. If his earlier warning was right, his current promise might be worth trusting. The reminder of past accuracy underwrites the present prophecy. It’s not gloating; it’s credentialing.
ἀσιτία (asitia) — v.21: “A long time without food” — ἀσιτία means “abstinence from food.” This was partly practical (cooking was impossible in the storm, and seasickness would have been universal) and partly despair (why eat when you’re going to die?). The physical state of the 276 people on board would have been miserable: soaked, exhausted, starving, terrified.
vv.23–24: At the lowest point of the voyage, Paul delivers a message of divine assurance. The pattern is now familiar: fear followed by a night vision followed by a specific promise (cf. 18:9–10 in Corinth, 23:11 in Jerusalem). But this time the promise extends beyond Paul himself: “God has granted you all those sailing with you.” The word κεχάρισταί (“has granted,” “has given as a gift”) comes from the same root as χάρις (charis, “grace”). The 275 other lives on the ship have been given to Paul as a gift. The prisoner has become the protector.
δεῖ σε Καίσαρι παραστῆναι (dei se Kaisari parastēnai) — v.24: “You must stand before Caesar” — the divine δεῖ (“must”) appears again, now in the mouth of an angel. This is the third time the Roman destination has been confirmed (19:21, 23:11, now 27:24). The ship may be breaking apart, but the promise is not. Paul’s survival is guaranteed by narrative necessity: God has an appointment for him in Rome, and no storm can cancel it.
v.26: “We must run aground on some island” — another δεῖ (“must”). Even the shipwreck is ordained. Paul tells them the good news (everyone survives) and the bad news (the ship is lost) with equal certainty. The specificity of “some island” (νῆσόν τινα) suggests Paul doesn’t know which one. He has prophetic assurance about the outcome but not the details.
The Fourteenth Night
27 When the fourteenth night had come, as we were being driven across the Adriatic Sea, about midnight the sailors sensed that they were approaching some land.
28 And taking soundings they found twenty fathoms, and a little further on they took soundings again and found fifteen fathoms.
29 And fearing that we might run aground somewhere on rocky shores, they dropped four anchors from the stern and prayed for daylight.
30 But when the sailors were trying to escape from the ship and had lowered the dinghy into the sea, pretending that they were about to lay out anchors from the bow,
31 Paul said to the centurion and the soldiers, “Unless these men remain on the ship, you yourselves cannot be saved.”
32 Then the soldiers cut the ropes of the dinghy and let it fall away.
τὸν Ἀδρίαν (ton Adrian) — v.27: The “Adriatic Sea” — in ancient usage, the Adria (Ἀδρίας) referred not just to the modern Adriatic between Italy and the Balkans but to the entire central Mediterranean basin between Sicily, Italy, Greece, and North Africa. This was standard ancient geographical terminology, confirmed by Strabo and other geographers. Fourteen days of drifting in a northeast gale from Cauda would place the ship approximately where Luke says it ends up: approaching Malta, a distance of about 475 miles. James Smith calculated the drift rate and distance and found it a precise match.
v.27: “The sailors sensed that they were approaching land” — the verb προσάγειν (“to approach”) combined with “sensed” (ὑπενόουν, “suspected”) suggests the sailors heard something — most likely the sound of breaking surf. Experienced Mediterranean sailors could hear breakers from a considerable distance on a stormy night. The detail is exactly the kind of observation that comes from someone who was there in the darkness, listening.
v.28: The soundings (twenty fathoms, then fifteen) confirm a shelving seabed — the ship is approaching a coast. Modern hydrographic charts of the approach to St. Paul’s Bay on Malta show exactly this depth progression at the location tradition identifies as the landing site. The correlation between Luke’s measurements and modern charts is one of the most striking confirmations in the chapter.
v.29: Anchoring from the stern (rather than the bow) is an unusual procedure but tactically correct in this situation. It kept the bow pointed toward shore, so that when daylight came they could attempt a controlled run onto the beach. Four anchors provided maximum holding power. The detail “prayed for daylight” (εὔχοντο ἡμέραν γενέσθαι) is poignant — 276 people on a battered ship, anchored in the dark off an unknown coast, waiting for dawn.
vv.30–32: The attempted desertion by the sailors is a tense, realistic scene. The crew, who knew the ship was doomed, tried to escape in the dinghy under cover of pretending to set bow anchors. Paul catches them and alerts the centurion. The soldiers’ drastic response — cutting the ropes and letting the dinghy fall away — burns the last escape route. Now everyone is committed to the ship. But it also means the professional sailors must stay and handle the vessel in the morning, which is exactly what Paul’s warning intended. The centurion, who earlier overruled Paul’s advice (v.11), now trusts the prisoner’s judgment implicitly.
Paul Encourages Them to Eat
33 And as day was about to dawn, Paul urged them all to take some food, saying, “Today is the fourteenth day that you have been constantly watching and going without food, having eaten nothing.
34 Therefore I urge you to take some food, for this is for your preservation. For not a hair from the head of any of you will perish.”
35 Having said this, he took bread and gave thanks to God in the presence of all, and he broke it and began to eat.
36 And all of them were encouraged and they themselves also took food.
37 And there were 276 of us in all on the ship.
38 When they had eaten enough, they began to lighten the ship by throwing the wheat into the sea.
vv.33–35: Paul has become the de facto leader of the ship. The centurion defers to him. The soldiers obey him. And now he feeds the entire complement. The scene is charged with eucharistic overtones: he took bread, gave thanks (εὐχαρίστησεν τῷ θεῷ, the word from which we get “Eucharist”), broke it, and began to eat. Whether Luke intends a deliberate allusion to the Lord’s Supper or is simply describing a Jewish meal blessing is debated. But for Luke’s Christian readers, the echoes would have been unmistakable: a leader, on the eve of deliverance, taking bread, giving thanks, and breaking it for a community in distress.
v.34: “Not a hair from the head of any of you will perish” echoes Jesus’s words in Luke 21:18. Paul applies to 276 shipmates a promise originally given by Jesus to his disciples about persecution. The assurance is absolute: no one will die. The specificity (“not a hair”) makes the promise as concrete as possible.
v.37: Luke inserts the total number of people aboard — 276 — at exactly the point where Paul has just promised that all will survive. The precision serves a theological purpose: this is not a vague promise; it is an auditable claim. The reader can count: 276 will board the ship into the storm. 276 must reach shore. (Some manuscripts read 76, but 276 is the better-attested reading and is consistent with the size of an Alexandrian grain ship.)
v.38: The remaining wheat cargo is now dumped overboard. This is the final jettisoning: first cargo (v.18), then gear (v.19), now the grain itself. The ship has been stripped of everything of commercial value. All that remains is the hull and the people. For an Alexandrian grain ship whose entire purpose was to carry wheat to Rome, dumping the wheat is the ultimate admission that the mission has failed. But a different mission — getting Paul to Rome — continues.
The Shipwreck
39 Now when day came, they did not recognize the land, but they noticed a bay with a beach, onto which they planned, if possible, to run the ship aground.
40 And casting off the anchors, they left them in the sea, at the same time loosening the lashings on the steering oars. Then hoisting the foresail to the wind, they headed for the beach.
41 But striking a reef where two seas met, they ran the vessel aground. The bow stuck fast and remained immovable, but the stern began to break up under the violence of the waves.
42 The soldiers’ plan was to kill the prisoners so that none of them would swim away and escape.
43 But the centurion, wanting to save Paul, kept them from their plan. He ordered those who could swim to jump overboard first and get to land,
44 and the rest to follow, some on planks and some on pieces of the ship. And so it happened that all were brought safely to land.
v.39: They don’t recognize the land because they’ve never been here and there are no landmarks they can identify. But they can see a bay with a sandy beach (κόλπον ἔχοντα αἰγιαλόν) — the best possible landing site for a controlled grounding. The traditional identification is St. Paul’s Bay on the north coast of Malta, which matches the description: a bay with a sandy beach, approached through waters that shoal from twenty to fifteen fathoms, with a clay bottom that would hold anchors, and a reef at the mouth of the bay where two currents converge.
v.40: The sequence of actions is rapid and technically precise. They cut the anchor ropes (no time to haul in four anchors), unlash the two large steering oars (which had been secured during the storm), raise the small foresail (ἀρτέμωνα, artemōna — the only sail still usable for steering), and aim for the beach. Every nautical term here is correct and every action is in the right order. This is the testimony of someone who watched professional sailors executing an emergency beaching procedure.
τόπον διθάλασσον (topon dithalassson) — v.41: “A reef where two seas met” — literally “a place of two seas.” This describes a submerged sandbar or shoal where two bodies of water converge, creating cross-currents. At the traditional site in St. Paul’s Bay, a small island (Salmonetta) creates exactly this condition: a channel between the island and the mainland where currents from both sides of the island meet over a shallow ridge. The ship strikes this ridge, the bow buries itself in the clay, and the stern is exposed to the full force of the waves and begins to disintegrate.
v.42: The soldiers’ plan to kill the prisoners is not casual cruelty; it’s self-preservation. Under Roman military law, a soldier who allowed a prisoner to escape was liable to suffer the prisoner’s sentence. If Paul or the other prisoners swam away in the chaos, their guards could face execution. The soldiers are acting rationally within a brutal system.
v.43: Julius the centurion, who has been quietly important throughout the voyage, makes his most consequential decision: he overrules the soldiers and saves Paul. Luke attributes his motive to “wanting to save Paul” (βουλόμενος διασῶσαι τὸν Παῦλον). Over the course of the voyage, the centurion’s attitude toward Paul has progressed from basic courtesy (v.3) to overruling his advice (v.11) to trusting his judgment (v.31) to risking his own career to protect him (v.43). Paul has earned this man’s loyalty through a hurricane.
πάντας διασωθῆναι ἐπὶ τὴν γῆν (pantas diasōthēnai epi tēn gēn) — v.44: “All were brought safely to land” — πάντας (pantas, “all”) is emphatic. All 276. Not a hair lost. The angel’s promise (v.24) and Paul’s assurance (v.34) are fulfilled to the letter. The chapter ends not with a miracle in the conventional sense — no one walks on water, no storm is calmed by a word — but with survival. The ship is destroyed. The cargo is gone. The passengers are clinging to planks in the surf. But everyone is alive. The divine promise was not that the storm would be averted but that they would come through it.
General Notes on the Chapter
Acts 27 is universally recognized as one of the most detailed and accurate accounts of ancient seamanship in all of surviving literature. Scholars of maritime history, including those with no theological interest, have studied it for its technical precision. Every detail — the sailing routes, the wind patterns, the emergency procedures, the drift rate, the depth soundings, the ship construction techniques — has been verified as consistent with what we know of Mediterranean navigation in the first century. The chapter is a primary source for the history of ancient seafaring.
But the chapter is more than a maritime adventure. It is structured as a progressive reversal of authority. At the beginning, Paul is a prisoner whose advice is overruled by professionals. By the end, he is the de facto leader of the ship — the one whose word is trusted, whose God is invoked, whose survival guarantees everyone else’s. The centurion, the soldiers, the crew, and the passengers all depend on the prisoner. The reversal is complete: the man in chains is the only one who knows what is going to happen and why.
The theological message of the chapter is not that God prevents storms but that God accompanies people through them. The promise given to Paul is not “you will have smooth sailing” but “you must stand before Caesar” — and therefore you will survive whatever happens between here and Rome. The ship breaks apart. The cargo is lost. Fourteen days of terror pass. But everyone lives. The promise is kept not by averting the crisis but by sustaining life through it.
The eucharistic overtones of the meal scene (vv.33–36) are significant regardless of whether Luke intends a direct allusion. A leader taking bread, giving thanks, breaking it, and sharing it with a community facing mortal danger — this is the shape of the Last Supper, and it is the shape of Christian worship. In the middle of the Mediterranean, on a disintegrating ship, with pagans and soldiers and prisoners, something that looks like communion happens. The sacred and the desperate are not opposites in Luke’s theology; they are the same moment.