These people typically had three things in common: they were young, hot, and willing to play right into the hands of whatever producer was pulling their puppet strings.
It was all drama, from the guests who came on board to the crew nights out — which, I knew now that I’d signed a contract, were a requirement. Youhadto go out if you agreed to be on this show, whether you wanted to or not. The only exception was if you were ill.
So, yeah — I knew that lens was zoomed in on me.
And I swore I felt the breeze whispering to me that I’d made a mistake.
I smiled wide despite that feeling, shaking it off and squinting even through the dark frames of my sunglasses as I took in the impossibly blue water of the Gulf of Naples. There was nothing like this feeling, the possibility and excitement of a new season in a beautiful part of the world most were never lucky enough to see in real life. Even with the unfamiliarity of the show aspect, I was still thrilled.
Nine charters of hard work lay ahead of me — but those weeks would also be the kind of chaotic fun that only comes with living the life of a yachtie.
We worked around the clock, catering to charter guests who paid six figures for just a few days on our boat. From the moment they stepped on board, we tended to their every need, giving them a luxury vacation experience while also keeping the boat pristine and functional.
The days were long, the nights never-ending, and yet we still found the energy to party whenever we had a day off.
I was born for it.
My father would hate to hear me say that. He was never afraid to let me know when he hated a choice I’d made, either. I knew all those years he pushed me to perfection, he imagined me becoming a doctor or engineer or lawyer or hedge fund manager.
The last thing he expected was for me to long to travel the world, to work in hospitality, to wait on other people the way we always had people waiting on our family when we vacationed.
He didn’t understand this lifestyle I’d chosen. I knew he wasn’t proud.
But this felt like my chance to show him why he should be.
I wondered if my mother had talked to him at all, if she’d tried to make him see the value in my career choice. I’d wager not, if I were a betting woman. My mom was kind and loving, the kind of nurturer any kid would be lucky to grow up with.
But she was also passive and agreeable to any and everything my father said.
At least, at the end of the day, I knew I could count on her to be waiting with a hug and some words of encouragement instead of a lecture.
I walked along a line of beautiful boats until I was looking up at theSinking Sun— fifty-five meters of floating luxury.
And the first superyacht I’d be running as chief stew.
Excitement fluttered through me like a thousand freshly hatched butterflies, and I did my best to do as the producers had told me and ignore the cameras — and my wedgie — as I kicked off my sandals and carefully carried my suitcase across the passerelle.
It felt like coming home each time my bare feet hit the teak wood of a superyacht. And yet, as familiar as it was, this season was entirely different.
It was much shorter, for one — just a mere two months as opposed to the typical three-to-four months I’d worked on other yachts. I was also back in the Med after spending the last two years in the Bahamas, which was much more laid-back. Plus, the clients coming aboard were more high profile than I was used to, the kind of people I knew would put us through hell just for fun.
The biggest difference, obviously, was that every second of it was being filmed.
It was hard to forget that fact with the cameras surrounding me as I made my way past the main salon and down the stairs until I hit the crew quarters. The producers told me I’d be the first on board, the first to be introduced on the show after our captain, but it still felt strange. I was so used to arriving for the season with the chief stew already there and waiting for me, room assignment and plan of attack in hand.
This time, it would bemeassigning the rooms and making the plans.
A smile bloomed on my lips at the thought as I took a quick peek around the crew quarters. As usual, they were cramped but functional — a space designed for necessity, not comfort. The small, galley-style kitchen was tucked into one corner, its stainless-steel counters gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lighting. A compact fridge hummed quietly beside a microwave that had likely reheated more instant noodles and late-night leftovers than actual meals.
A couple of well-worn tables filled the center of the room, surrounded by cushioned benches that had been patched up with duct tape. This was where the crew would shove our faces with whatever scraps the chef left for us, usually eaten in passing — quick bites grabbed between shifts, conversations cut short by radio calls crackling in our earpieces.
But these tables weren’t just for rushed meals. They were the heart of our off-hours, the place where we gathered after long days, kicking back with stolen bottles of beer, trading war stories, and dissolving into fits of laughter that we tried to keep quiet enough not to wake the captain.
The crew mess was typically, like its namesake, messy — but it was ours.
I squeezed past a cameraman to assess the cabins next, noting that there were also cameras fixed in every corner of every room. They weren’t kidding around when they saideverythingwould be filmed.
The cabins were actually quite nice for a yacht this size, with built-in storage and just enough space to move without feeling completely claustrophobic. But the beds were still small, the mattresses thin enough to remind you this wasn’t exactly luxury living, and the top bunk far too close to the ceiling. I knew from experience how easy it was to forget that fact and bang your head in the middle of the night or roll over too fast and nearly fling yourself off the side.