Author: Luis Rafael Hurtado

By Chef Raffie. #25/1104.

Disclaimer: Any resemblance to real yachts, real people, or real disasters is purely coincidental… though if you happen to recognize yourself, congratulations — you’ve officially inspired art.

The Gospel According to Jocelin: Patron Saint of Shiny Trash Cans

Some say she was 32. Others swore she looked 12. Either way, Jocelin Achieves, as she called herself, had mastered the ancient art of faking it until you steal a cutting board.

She claimed to have worked on 80m, 90m yachts — mega-yachts, darling — but couldn’t tell a port side from a pork chop. I asked her once how many liters in a gallon — she blinked twice, allergic to the question. (She’s allergic to everything, by the way. Except designer yoga pants and designer lies.)

Let’s be fair. Jocelin had many talents. Interviewing, for example. She interviewed better than a CIA double agent. She could convince you she invented lemon water. And if you questioned her, she’d just say: “It’s because I’m highly intuitive. And Scorpio.”

Amazon Prime Minister of Provisions

Now provisioning… ah yes… provisioning was her kingdom.

While I was trying to keep provisions realistic — you know, for a two-week boss trip with four kids and a golden doodle — Jocelin shopped as if she were preparing for Armageddon hosted at Burning Man.

“Two beach umbrellas?”

“No Chef, we need SIX. Three for the boat, three for my… I mean… for backup.”

Laundry detergent? Enough to outlive a nuclear war.

Deck shoes? Rotated quarterly like tires on a Ferrari — because nothing says “guest-ready” like new Sperrys every full moon.

Yeti coolers? “Let’s get two, in case one breaks. Or melts. Or floats away in a hurricane.”

And the best part? The extras always had a destination: her house. She said it was “in case we run out, we don’t need to re-provision — just swing by my place, I have a backup pantry.”

You mean… Costco Warehouse North, located at Casa Jocelin.

The Trash Can Heard Around the Dock

Let’s talk about that trash can. A $300 voice-activated robotic trash can that lit up like a spaceship when you approached it. It talked, opened with grace, and probably knew your zodiac sign.

It lasted two months.

Then Jocelin said: “It’s defective. We have to return it.”

The new one arrived. But the old one?

Last seen in Jocelin’s kitchen, housing “organic-only” waste and the dreams of honest yachties everywhere.

Same thing happened with my oak cutting board — three months of seasoning, oiling, bonding with it like it was my firstborn. One day she declared:

“Chef, it’s not visually appealing anymore. The Mrs. wants everything to look new.”

Guess where it went?

Yes. Her house. Next to my frying pan. And my soul.

Christmas Came Early… For Her Entire Family

During the holidays, the crew noticed something strange.

Jocelin was gifting brand new deck shoes to her family. Different sizes. Different colors.

“Wow! So thoughtful!” they said.

Yes, thoughtful indeed — straight from the boat’s Amazon orders, re-gifted with wrapping paper and guilt-free charm.

There were stories of provisioning miracles — snacks disappearing mid-charter only to reappear in her air-conditioned Tupperware closet. And that mystical gallon of almond milk that cost $30 — always one for the boat… and one for home, of course.

Let’s not forget the time she ordered eight brand-new pillows because “the old ones absorbed too many negative emotions.” Naturally, the “used” ones found shelter in her guest bedroom. Sustainability, Jocelin-style.

In Jocelin We Store

She had a lifetime membership at The Container Store. I’m convinced she didn’t just shop there — she was stockpiling for the apocalypse.

We needed one cooler. She bought four.

A new mop? Why not two.

Sunscreen? Gallons.

Tampons? Costco crates.

And always, always… she said:

“Better to have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it.”

Unless it’s honesty. That, apparently, she could live without.

The Jocelin Effect

After a year, we realized something.

The boat always looked sparkling. Everything was new. She was always glowing… because her entire house was fully furnished courtesy of the yacht’s Amazon Prime wish list.

She didn’t just steal stuff.

She manifested it.

She didn’t just over-order.

She achieved it.

And when she left? She called it “graduating.”

We just called it relief.

Final Credits

So next time someone says “fake it till you make it,” just ask:

“You mean like Jocelin — the Patron Saint of Prime Deliveries, Trash Can Thief, and Cutting Board Collector of the Caribbean?”

Because she didn’t just fake it.

She made it sparkle.

And took it home.

By Chef Raffie. #25/1097.

Disclaimer: This post is inspired by random nonsense I saw floating around on social media. Any resemblance to real-life situations, actual yachts, or Cleopatra-wannabe chefs is purely accidental… and totally coincidental… and also absolutely happening in real life.

Ahoy, family—let’s talk about “fine dining at sea.”

When you sign up for a small boat gig, you expect a bit of chaos. What you don’t expect is a chef who doesn’t cook.

I’m currently working on a 20-meter floating soap opera where the captain and the chef are a couple. Sounds romantic, right?

Wrong.

Because this particular chef… doesn’t cook.

At all.

Not when there are guests, not when there aren’t guests, not while we’re navigating, not while we’re parked in the marina, not on Mondays, not on Sundays, not with a fox, not in a box… Dr. Seuss would be proud.

She simply. does. not. cook.

The only time I’ve had something resembling a decent meal since joining this floating sitcom was when the owner came aboard. He decreed, like Poseidon himself:

“We shall all dine together.”

And lo and behold, she materialized in the galley—pots clanging, apron on, fulfilling her long-forgotten role as “chef.”

The second the boss stepped off? Puff! Gone. Like Cinderella at midnight—back to the pumpkin.

Meanwhile, the crew survives on scraps, half-hearted snacks, and the spiritual nourishment of despair.

I tried raising it with the captain (who, in case you missed it, happens to be her partner). But love, as they say, is blind—apparently also deaf, mute, and tastebudless.

He won’t lift a finger.

Why This Matters

You might be laughing—and you should, because the absurdity writes itself—but here’s the truth: this isn’t just a funny crew tale. It’s a red flag for crew welfare and, eventually, for the owner himself.

A yacht with a chef who refuses to cook is like a Ferrari with no engine: pretty on the outside, useless on the inside.

Crew morale tanks.

Health suffers.

Service crumbles.

And sooner or later, even the most patient owner will realize something’s rotten—not in Denmark, but right in his own galley.

So no, this isn’t mockery. It’s awareness.

Because food on board isn’t just calories—it’s culture, morale, and sanity.

And a boat without it? That’s not yachting, my friends.

That’s slow torture on the high seas.

The Queen of Not-Cooking

There she is—sitting on her throne like Cleopatra of the Caribbean, admiring her manicure while the captain worships her as if she just invented bread… and the crew starves quietly on the floor.

Because really, what’s the point of having a chef on board?

Cooking is so overrated. Better to have pretty nails and a boyfriend who covers up the chaos.

Meanwhile, the poor deckhands are chewing on fenders like they’re artisanal baguettes.

Bon appétit, mes amis.

Final Thought

This isn’t about mocking individuals—it’s about calling out a real issue.

A boat without food is a boat without soul.

Crew depends on the chef just as much as on the captain, and when that role collapses, the entire operation starts to rot from within.

Sooner or later, even the owner will taste it.

Yachting Culture #25/1062.

“So Let Me Get This Straight…”

A Burnt-End Memoir in Real Time by Yours Truly Chef Raffie

So let me get this straight…

I just landed in Nice—a land known for rosé, regrets, and rejected provisioning invoices—when my WhatsApp lit up like a fryer fire:

“No money.”

“Guests arriving tomorrow.”

“No groceries.”

“Apartment cooking too?”

“Also we need lunch in 2 hours. Can you do gluten-free sushi? But also vegan. But also caviar.”

I am tired. I am hungry. I am already mildly regretting all my life choices.

How did I go from “chef” to underpaid culinary therapist with a side hustle in miracles?

I haven’t even seen the galley yet and I’m already expected to prep lunch, dinner, and somehow manifest a five-course welcome dinner—with no provisions, no budget, and no time.

Oh, and for the record? The last two chefs apparently escaped into the sunset, burned out, used up, and (if there’s any justice in this world) now running a taco stand in Bali.

When I finally step into the galley, it hits me.

I’m not entering a kitchen.

I’m entering a crime scene.

The place is wrecked.

The onions are half-chopped and crying harder than I am.

There’s a smell that can only be described as culinary PTSD.

There’s no petty cash. No provisioning card. No plan. No clue.

But somehow I’m the one expected to whip out soufflés, sushi rolls, and foie gras foam like I’m auditioning for Hell’s Kitchen: Yacht Edition.

And the cherry on top?

“Can you smile more?”

“Hospitality is the heart of yachting.”

Excuse me—what?

Hospitality? You mean pretending everything’s fine while crafting fine dining from an empty fridge, a wet sponge, and a stewardess asking if I’ve ‘started plating yet’?

And God forbid I ask for one day to prep.

One. Freaking. Day.

A single moment to breathe.

To clean up the galley battlefield.

To locate something that isn’t expired or suspiciously green.

To plan a menu with actual ingredients instead of summoning lunch from the ether like a culinary necromancer.

But no.

Apparently, asking for a prep day is a diva move.

I’m not here to cook—I’m here to perform miracles.

So here I stand:

Eye twitching.

Hands trembling.

Holding a can of energy drink in one hand and an empty packet of vegan cheese in the other.

And quietly asking myself:

“Do I cry now or wait until service?”

💡 

The Moment of Clarity

I didn’t scream.

I didn’t throw a ramekin.

I didn’t set the galley on fire and fake my own death (…tempting though).

Instead, I took a deep breath, wrote this story in my head, and realized:

• A day to prep isn’t diva behavior. It’s basic fing logistics*.
• Communication isn’t a luxury. It’s the difference between Michelin stars and meltdown scars.
• And most importantly: I’m a chef, not a one-man cruise ship food court.

🙌 Final Thoughts for My Fellow Galley Gladiators

You are not crazy.

You are not failing.

You are not ungrateful.

The industry is just drunk on its own delusions and expecting us to clean up the mess without even handing us a mop.

So if you’re feeling the pressure…

If you’re holding back the scream…

If someone just handed you a lemon and asked for a tasting menu—

I see you. You’re not alone.

Now go pour yourself a glass of wine. Or a triple espresso.

Or whatever keeps you from throwing the immersion blender at someone.

Because if Jesus could feed 5,000 with five loaves and two fish…

You can politely tell them you need a fing provisioning day.*

Have a wonderful, productive, and stress-free weekend.

(And if not, at least document it—there’s a book in this somewhere.)

Yachting Culture #25/1057.

Season’s End: A Message from the Galley

By Chef Raffie

I’m Tired. I’m Exhausted. I’m Still Here.

To every crew member, chef, stew, deckhand, and soul barely holding on—

Right now, I’m standing somewhere between faith and fatigue.

My body aches. My heart is heavy. My future feels uncertain.

But I still have God. I still have hope.

And I’m finally saying this out loud:

I am not okay. And that’s okay.

This industry has a way of breaking you down quietly.

You give everything—your sleep, your health, your sanity—

All for someone else’s luxury holiday, or that perfect Instagram plate.

And when you’re hurting, the response is always the same:

“Push through.”

“Tough it out.”

“Take a shot and keep going.”

I’ve done that. For years.

But now I know better:

There is no medal for dying with your clogs on.

To every chef hiding pain behind a smile,

To every stew faking energy in the laundry room,

To every deckhand swallowing exhaustion just to avoid being replaced—

You are not weak. You are human.

🛳️ To captains, owners, brokers:

If you’re going to call us “family,” then protect us like one.

That means real support—therapy, time off, grace—not just bonuses.

🙏 To everyone in this industry:

If you’re breaking, speak.

If you’re tired, rest.

If you’re drowning, ask for help.

Before it’s too late.

I’m choosing healing. Choosing honesty.

Choosing not to become another silent statistic.

And if you’re reading this?

You can, too.

God, have mercy on those who serve.

And may we all remember:

We are worthy of being served, too.

The season is almost over. Hold on.

—Chef Raffie

#YachtingMentalHealth #HospitalityBurnout #ChefLife #CrewCare #ItsOkayToNotBeOkay #FaithOverFatigue #AskForHelp #NotAnotherStatistic #HealingIsCourage

The Chief Stew Chronicles: Tales from the Espresso-Fueled Twilight Zone by Luis Rafael Hurtado. #25/1018.

Once upon a time—because every nightmare deserves a fairy tale intro—I found myself trapped aboard a floating asylum disguised as a yacht. And at the helm of chaos, ruling the roost with a steely blow-dried grip and a latte in hand, was our beloved Chief Stewardess: a walking, talking cautionary tale in yacht whites.

Now, don’t get me wrong—on paper, she was a “great stew.” Five-star service, polished cutlery, candles lit with military precision. But behind the scenes? Oh darling, she made a root canal look like a spa day.

This woman did not speak—she narrated her entire stream of consciousness aloud, like an audiobook nobody asked for. She had conversations with herself, with the vacuum, with the spoon drawer, and occasionally, she even included us lowly crew mortals—though she’d interrupt us before we could respond. Asking a question, then cutting me off halfway through my answer? Iconic.

Fueled by six shots of espresso and unresolved childhood trauma, she zipped around the boat micromanaging like it was an Olympic sport. If dinner was scheduled for 8pm, she’d be in my galley at 6:43pm, sweating bullets over a napkin fold, while I’m elbow-deep in mise en place.

“Do you need help?”

No. I need space. And maybe divine intervention.

Forget chilling—she had no off switch. She’d wake up from a nap she somehow had time for (unlike the rest of us) and immediately jump back into talking about dinner service seven hours away. Meanwhile, I’m still trying to get through breakfast without burning the eggs or my will to live.

But the pièce de résistance? The after-hours “team bonding” events. You know, the ones she orchestrated like a cruise director on meth. She’d gather the crew, pour the rosé, and proceed to get delightfully smashed while drama unfolded faster than a Real Housewives reunion.

Nothing says relaxation like watching your Chief Stew weep over her third vodka soda and accuse the deckhand of stealing her soul.

And let’s not forget her poor Second Stew, who followed her around like a baby duck imprinting on a hair-straightened hurricane. You could see the life force slowly drain from that girl’s eyes by Day 3.

The Captain? Oh, he was fully aware. He even joked—half-serious, half-desperate—that life would be better if we were all male crew. (Same energy as “Men’s Mental Health Month,” but with less emotional intelligence.)

Look, it wasn’t just that she was annoying. It was that she made what could’ve been a straightforward, professional, and even enjoyable job feel like psychological warfare. Working alongside her didn’t feel like teamwork—it felt like surviving a hostage situation with high-thread-count sheets.

---

Compassionate Coda

In her defense—and yes, there’s always a dark little asterisk to these stories—she was a survivor of something far bigger than this industry. Years of alcoholism and drug addiction had rewired her emotional landscape, replacing calm with control and connection with chaos. Stability didn’t come easy to her; she compensated with over-functioning and manic leadership, probably afraid that if she let go for even one second, everything would collapse—including herself.

So I see her. Behind the mascara, behind the monologue, behind the micromanaging—there was a wounded woman doing her best not to drown in her own unfinished healing.

But Lord help us all…

she made sure we all got a taste of the whirlpool.