Author: Luis Rafael Hurtado

The Luxury Prison: A Live-Aboard Odyssey by Chef Luis Rafael Hurtado. #24/0221.

December 17, 2024 · 2 min read

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The Luxury Prison: A Live-Aboard Odyssey

Gather ’round, dear yachties and landlubbers alike, for the tragicomic tale of The Sole Stew Who Never Stepped Ashore—a gripping saga of high seas, endless shifts, and promises as hollow as the owner’s empathy tank.

It all began on a sunny day in Somewhere Expensive, when our protagonist—a bright-eyed, freshly hired sole stew—embarked on her grand adventure. The job description had promised glamour: impeccable sunsets, champagne-sipping guests, and up to 10 days off between busy periods. In yachtie terms, that clearly translated to: “10 minutes to cry in the laundry room while clutching a bottle of window cleaner.”

Now, picture her surprise when those magical 10 days off vanished into thin air—much like the fresh towels she mysteriously conjures from unknown dimensions.

“Oh, you wanted time off?” the owners must’ve scoffed. “Silly stew! Who needs rest when there are guests to entertain and placemats to realign?!”

And let’s not forget the hours:

7:30 AM to 11 PM. Every. Single. Day.

Even vampires are clocking fewer hours at this point.

Our stew—name withheld to protect her dignity (and her potential revenge plot)—finally dared to voice her concerns, gently mentioning the small, human need for rest.

“Rest? What is this… rest you speak of?” the owner likely whispered, squinting as though deciphering ancient hieroglyphics. “No. No rest for you.”

With a flick of their Rolex-clad wrist, the “meeting” was adjourned.

Thus began life in this peculiar floating purgatory—anchored permanently, like a teak-decked Alcatraz where white-glove service reigns supreme.

Think I’m being dramatic? Allow me to paint the scene:

• No stepping ashore.

• No walking beyond the boat’s boundaries.

• No mental reprieve from the madness.

She is Sisyphus, forever pushing her vacuum cleaner up the same carpeted hill, while guests demand more drinks, fluffier pillows, and perhaps a sprinkling of her sanity—just for garnish.

But wait! It’s not all doom and gloom. There are perks:

1. She’ll leave with the core strength of an Olympic gymnast from hauling trays 18 hours a day.

2. Her ability to smile while dying inside will rival that of a seasoned beauty queen.

3. She now possesses enough material for a Netflix dark comedy series: “Anchored in Agony.”

The real tragedy? She can’t leave. The cruel, capricious visa gods have ensured she stays bound, and a paycheck—no matter how small or soaked in tears—is still a paycheck.

So, dear yachtie comrades, what’s the moral of this salty saga?

Perhaps it’s this: Always clarify if “live aboard” means “never leave aboard.” And when someone promises, “Oh, you’ll definitely get days off,” just know that’s yacht-owner slang for: “We’ll pat you on the head and smile while you descend into madness.”

To our hero, still adrift in this gilded cage, we say: Stay strong. Find small joys in smudgeless cutlery and perfectly folded linens. Whisper your frustrations into the crisp pleat of a napkin. And if all else fails, remember this—you are now the undisputed master of survival on the high seas.

Anchors aweigh, sanity optional.

The Saga of Carl: Gourmet Engineer and Living Nightmare by Chef Luis Rafael Hurtado. #24/0206.

December 2, 2024 · 3 min read

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The Saga of Carl: Gourmet Engineer and Living Nightmare

Life on board a yacht is supposed to be glamorous—crystal-clear waters, sunsets worthy of postcards, and a crew that’s sharp, polished, and professional. And then there’s Carl, our onboard engineer. The only reason Carl still has this gig is that the owners don’t want to shell out more money for someone who knows which end of a wrench to use and how to fold a shirt.

Carl is a walking contradiction. He keeps the engines humming but can’t seem to maintain even basic hygiene in his room. The place hasn’t been cleaned since the yacht’s maiden voyage. Step inside, and you’ll find a biohazard zone disguised as a cabin. Old socks, mystery stains, and the faint odor of desperation blend into a symphony of horror. It’s as if Carl is conducting an experiment to see how much filth a human can survive. Spoiler: He’s winning.

Morning

Carl starts his day by stumbling into the galley like a sleep-deprived bear emerging from hibernation. He brews a cup of instant coffee so strong it could double as engine degreaser. Breakfast? A bizarre concoction of canned sausage, powdered eggs, and toast that somehow ends up both burnt and soggy. Carl calls it “rustic yacht fare.” We call it “hard to watch.”

Afternoon

When he’s not elbow-deep in engine grease, Carl likes to pretend he’s a gourmet chef. This involves raiding the galley for whatever isn’t bolted down and turning it into a dish only he dares to eat. One time, he made a “fusion pasta” with ketchup and instant ramen. Another time, he tried to sous vide a steak in the engine room. The results? Let’s just say the crew now has a strict No Carl in the Kitchen policy.

Let’s also talk about his room. The man lives like he’s actively auditioning for a reality show about hoarders. Dirty laundry is piled so high it’s practically a new bunkmate. Empty chip bags and soda cans litter the floor, creating a crunchy carpet of shame. He insists he’ll clean it “tomorrow,” but tomorrow—like Carl’s fitness goals—never comes.

Evening

By night, Carl swaps his overalls for what he calls “casual attire,” which is really just an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt that looks like it was purchased during a blackout sale. He lounges on the aft deck, puffing on a cigar he clearly can’t afford and swirling a glass of wine like he’s auditioning for Below Deck: The Budget Edition.

When the owners are aboard, Carl cranks up the charm—or what he thinks passes for charm. He leans into conversations with guests, regaling them with tales of his “chef skills” and “refined palate.” Meanwhile, the crew tries not to gag, knowing full well he eats cold spaghetti straight from the can when no one’s looking.

Why He’s Still Here

Let’s be honest—the only reason Carl still has a job is that he’s just competent enough to keep the engines running, and the owners don’t want to pay for someone better. So here we are, stuck with a man who can fix a diesel generator blindfolded but can’t figure out how to empty his trash bin.

Living with Carl is like sharing quarters with a tornado—it’s messy, chaotic, and leaves you questioning every life choice. But hey, at least the yacht’s engines work. For now.

The Swiss Knife Manager by Luis Rafael Hurtado. #24/0198.

November 22, 2024 · 2 min read

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Captain / Estate property Manager position

Unique opportunity:   Needing to fulfill with a qualified Captain that has at least a 200GT Lisc and long term experience.  At least 10yrs working with high end clients and owners (Professionalism is a must) This position requires managing daily overwatch of 34’ Viking, a World Cat 24’ and the 2nd estate property in the Bahamas.  Candidate must be well organized, punctual, mechanically inclined both in marine repairs and some house hold repairs, be interactive with owner and guests, physically fit for water activities and willing to travel if needed.  Diver, waterman kitesurfing activities all a plus.  This position will offer housing in the Bahamas and flights to and from the US if needed. Compensation is well above average.  Candidate must be legal to work in the US and Bahamas under specific terms.  

If you feel you qualify with these credentials and are interested, send CV to Waterwrkpr@Gmail.com   With “Captain/Estate  CV” as header.  

1st interviews will be over telephone along with 2nd interviews face to face upon completion of background checks and review of references.

Reply to the Ad:

Ah, what a refreshing job listing! It’s not every day you see an ad seeking a Captain/Estate Manager who’s essentially expected to be a human Swiss Army knife. I mean, who wouldn’t want to sign up for a gig where you’re a Captain one minute, a mechanic the next, and then, whoops—now you’re a handyman fixing the estate in the Bahamas (while possibly juggling some flaming swords in between)?

Let’s not forget that you’re also expected to be an interactive social butterfly with guests, a physical specimen fit for kitesurfing, diving, and all the water sports you can imagine—because hey, who needs sleep when you’ve got the ocean to frolic in, right?

But wait, it gets better! I see you’ve left out a key skill that’s obviously implied: Michelin-star culinary expertise. I mean, surely you want your Captain/Estate Manager to seamlessly slide into the kitchen when the owner has a few dozen guests over. Because why wouldn’t your versatile Captain be able to whip up a 7-course tasting menu after a long day of managing boats, property repairs, and entertaining guests? Who needs a sous-chef when you’ve got Captain Jack-of-All-Trades?

Oh, and the cherry on top—this marvel of a candidate must, of course, be legal to work in both the US and Bahamas. Because if they can juggle boats, estates, and soufflés, surely navigating immigration laws is a breeze.

Best of luck finding this mythical unicorn of a candidate. Personally, I’d suggest adding fire-breathing and aerial acrobatics to the job description just to really filter out the riffraff.

Cheers! 🍹

The Tale of the Great Yacht Lie: Cruising the World… Or Not by Luis Rafael Hurtado. #24/0189.

November 13, 2024 · 3 min read

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The Tale of the Great Yacht Lie: Cruising the World… Or Not

It all starts innocently enough. You’re scrolling through job listings, sipping your morning coffee, and dreaming of a new adventure. Then you spot it: “Seeking Yacht Chef for a World-Cruising Superyacht! Exotic locations, amazing owners, low-maintenance crew. Summer in Alaska, winter in the South Pacific!”

Your heart skips a beat. Alaska, Tahiti, New Zealand… This is it. The job of a lifetime! Finally, a chance to see the world, not just the insides of a galley in the same old ports you’ve visited a thousand times.

You apply, and the recruiter calls you with promises dripping like honey. “Oh yes, darling, you’re going to love this boat. The owners? Salt of the earth. They barely notice if dinner is five minutes late! And the kids? Absolute angels. The itinerary? A dream come true. Think: snorkeling in the Maldives, exploring the fjords of Norway, sipping cocktails on a private beach in Bora Bora…”

With visions of crystal-clear waters and island sunsets dancing in your head, you sign the contract.

But reality, my friend, has other plans.

The First Red Flag: “Itinerary Adjustments”

Your first clue that something might be amiss? A tiny, barely noticeable email from the captain: “Oh, by the way, we’ve had to slightly adjust the itinerary. We’re skipping Alaska this year.” Okay, fine. No biggie. Maybe Alaska wasn’t your thing anyway.

Then, the adjustments keep coming. Turns out, the dream trip around the world is more of a slightly wobbly circle around the Caribbean. Those stops in Bora Bora and the Maldives? Replaced by two months bobbing around Nassau like a buoy.

But hey, they say you have to adapt, right? You tell yourself it’s not the destination; it’s the journey. Except, in this case, the journey seems to be between the same three marinas over and over again.

“Low-Maintenance Owners”

Now, let’s talk about those “easy-going owners.” Remember when they promised you they wouldn’t even notice if dinner was a bit late? Well, they notice all right—right down to the number of sesame seeds on their sushi rolls. (Three too many? Start over.) And the kids? Absolute angels, indeed… if by “angels” you mean demons sent from some underworld whose primary diet consists of a chef’s tears and shattered dreams.

Your daily routine now includes hiding in the walk-in fridge to avoid yet another conversation about why the gluten-free pasta isn’t quite as al dente as they’d like it.

The “World-Cruising” Lie

You’ve been on board for six months, and you’re starting to feel like a prisoner on a very fancy version of “Groundhog Day.” Every few weeks, you hear the captain on the radio, excitedly talking about “new plans for next season.” And every time, it ends the same way: “Actually, let’s just do the Bahamas and New England again. It’s easy, you know?”

Easy for them, sure. For you? It’s another season of trying to figure out how to make the same damn mahi-mahi taste different for the fifth week in a row.

The Recruiters’ Greatest Hits

And just when you thought you’d learned your lesson, you find yourself scrolling through job ads again, laughing at the familiar sales pitch: “The owners are great, the itinerary is exotic, and the kids are a dream!”

Well, the joke’s on you, because the only “exotic” thing you’re going to see is the inside of yet another laundry closet filled with preppy polo shirts and pastel sundresses. And as for those kids? Dream on.

Why Do We Fall for It?

You have to ask yourself: Why do we keep falling for this? Maybe it’s because, deep down, we all want to believe the hype. We’re hopeless romantics who still dream of those Instagram-perfect days in uncharted waters. But here’s the reality: Most yachts don’t cruise around the world. They cruise around the same damn “milk run” season after season. It’s like being on the world’s fanciest hamster wheel—great views, but you’re never really getting anywhere.

So next time a captain or recruiter tells you about their “world-cruising” boat, just smile, nod, and know that you’re probably headed straight back to the Bahamas. Again.

The Formula One Chef, the $14,000 Couch, and the Kitchen Circus by Luis Rafael Hurtado. #24/0180.

November 8, 2024 · 4 min read

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The Formula One Chef, the $14,000 Couch, and the Kitchen Circus

Imagine this: I’m hired as a chef—a culinary magician expected to transform basic ingredients into dishes so breathtaking they’d make grown men weep. They want Michelin-star magic, the kind you’d expect to see in a kitchen outfitted with the latest, sleekest, most high-powered appliances. You know, state-of-the-art equipment, ready for a culinary Grand Prix.

Now, picture my excitement as I step into this “top-notch” kitchen… only to find a scene straight out of a circus of broken dreams. There’s the oven, an ancient relic on life support that seems to have barely survived the Nixon era, wheezing like it’s about to have a nervous breakdown. My heart sinks. I’ve gone from imagining a high-speed Ferrari kitchen to facing a lineup of appliances better suited for a historical reenactment of the 1970s. It’s like sending me to the Monaco Formula One Grand Prix in a 1970 Volkswagen Beetle and expecting a victory lap.

I’m told to “work with what I’ve got,” so I go to turn on the oven. But it doesn’t “turn on” so much as it awakens, sputtering and flickering like a half-dead campfire. It heats up, cools down, and heats up again in random bursts, like it’s trying to communicate in Morse code. Meanwhile, I’m sweating over a soufflé, whispering a silent prayer that it doesn’t collapse from a sudden temperature drop. Apparently, precision is optional when you’re working with an appliance that belongs in a yard sale’s “free” bin.

Next, I move on to the food processor—or as I like to call it, “the temperamental dinosaur.” This thing vibrates, growls, and makes noises that remind me of a jet engine about to fail mid-flight. It has exactly two modes: “slow-motion” and “violent chaos.” When I turn it on, it lurches around the counter like a possessed bull, forcing me to wrestle it with one hand while desperately holding the lid down with the other. I don’t know if I’m blending pesto or performing an exorcism.

And then we have the blender. Calling it a blender feels generous. I turn it on, and instead of blending, it gives the ingredients a gentle swirl, like a lazy day at the pool. I want a silky-smooth puree, but what I get is an art installation of chunky, half-mixed ingredients. Every time, I end up reaching in with a spoon to stir manually, leaning over the counter like I’m about to dive headfirst into a swamp.

But the real pièce de résistance in this house of horrors? The refrigerator. It’s an artifact so old that even “cool” would be an ambitious description. It barely chills to lukewarm, perfect for those days when you want to serve cheese with a side of food poisoning. Opening it feels like opening an Egyptian tomb, and honestly, there’s a good chance it’s haunted too, given the strange noises it makes at 3 AM.

Of course, the irony is that while they wouldn’t dream of upgrading this graveyard of appliances, they had no problem dropping $14,000 on a custom-made couch for the sitting room or purchasing an authentic Picasso at an auction at Christie’s in London. A couch! Plush, imported, stitched in threads of gold—or so I assume, given the price tag. It’s the kind of couch that demands its own spotlight, its own throne. But when I mention the idea of a new oven or a state-of-the-art induction top that will allow me to boil water in 90 seconds? Suddenly, everyone’s horrified. “Oh, no, that’s far too expensive!” they cry, clutching their wallets like I’ve asked them to fund a rocket to Mars or donate a kidney. “Why can’t you work with what you have?” they ask, as if expecting culinary perfection from these relics isn’t akin to expecting a symphony from a kazoo.

This kitchen circus doesn’t just push the boundaries of patience—it’s downright humiliating. Here I am, a chef with years of experience, battling it out with appliances that could double as historical artifacts. It’s exhausting, demoralizing, and borderline absurd. I’m like a Formula One driver forced to race on a tricycle with square wheels, somehow expected to win a trophy.

And every night, I leave that kitchen like a worn-out performer who’s just survived the most chaotic three-ring circus. They’ll eat my perfectly plated meal, completely unaware that I’ve just risked life, limb, and sanity to produce it. I’m pretty sure I burned 2,000 calories just trying to keep that food processor from flying off the counter.

So here’s to the Formula One chef, condemned to cook on outdated relics that belong in a thrift store. Here’s to the blender with the speed of a gentle breeze, to the oven on life support that likes to play hard-to-get, and to the $14,000 couch that sits in pristine silence as I juggle flaming pans like a culinary circus act.

And when the soufflé finally comes out right and they take that first bite, oblivious to the battlefield I’ve just survived, I take my bow. In this kitchen, the only thing high-end is the irony.

The Fast- Paced Culinary Artist by Luis Rafael Hurtado. #24/0179.

November 7, 2024 · 2 min read

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The ad practically glows with promise: “A vibrant and fast-paced family of four in Palm Beach seeks a culinary artist to transform every meal into a magical moment!” Sounds like a dream job, right? A stable gig cooking for an appreciative audience, showcasing your talents… until you read between the lines.

The employer expects you to offer multiple options for breakfast, lunch, and dinner—presumably because the family can’t decide if they want scrambled eggs or a five-course brunch by 9 a.m. every day. And let’s not overlook the themed meals: Taco Tuesday, “Italian Wednesday.” Yes, you’re expected to produce authentic street tacos on demand, followed by a Michelin-worthy pasta course less than 24 hours later. Who doesn’t want a side of whiplash with their risotto?

Then there’s the sourcing of only the freshest, seasonal ingredients. So add “grocery trip marathon” to your daily duties because your future employers believe that nothing pairs with a fast-paced life like hyper-organic vegetables sourced individually from obscure farmers’ markets. And on days when spontaneity hits—say, they’ve suddenly decided they want Peking duck for lunch—you might be casually asked to board a flight to Chinatown to grab “the perfect hoisin sauce.”

Of course, none of this would work without “a strong understanding of dietary restrictions.” In other words, gluten, dairy, and fun are firmly outlawed, and every dish must be recalculated based on who’s in a quinoa mood. Your salads need to be masterpieces; your soups must rival paintings. You’d think the family would just be happy you managed to make breakfast, lunch, and dinner in under 12 hours, but no, they want each dish “aesthetic,” probably expecting you to plate Tuesday’s toast with a side of edible poetry.

Flexibility? It’s right there on the list. That’s code for “we have no fixed schedule, so neither will you.” Expect calls at all hours, requests to whip up midnight soufflés, and be prepared to travel. Oh, and don’t forget the “competitive salary,” which will never quite feel like enough once you’ve catered the boss’s fourth impromptu dinner party this week.

In the end, you’d think they want a personal chef, but what they’re really after is a magician. They want someone who can conjure up a perfectly plated soufflé at a moment’s notice, while also being a discreet therapist, world-class decorator, and travel companion with the flexibility of a yoga instructor. You could swear they’re looking for a Michelin-starred Mary Poppins with an endless supply of gourmet ingredients in her apron.

But sure, if you’re willing to give up your weekends, holidays, and any semblance of a personal life for the chance to make a Palm Beach family’s dinner “memorable,” then this job’s perfect for you! Just remember to brush up on your themed brunch game and ensure your culinary “portfolio” includes at least one edible sculpture of the Eiffel Tower. After all, in today’s market, you’re not just a chef—you’re the entire restaurant, five days a week, with a smile and a garnish.

How Nelson the Chief Officer Got the Nickname “Mapache” (Raccoon) by Luis Rafael Hurtado. #24/0171.

October 28, 2024 · 3 min read

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How Nelson the Chief Officer Got the Nickname “Mapache” (Raccoon)

Disclaimer: Any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. This story is entirely fictional and meant only to entertain.

An old captain friend ropes me into cooking for a crew delivering a boat to Southern California via the Panama Canal, departing from St. Thomas, USVI. Now, this wasn’t your average professional team; this crew had all the sophistication of a drunken frat house reunion, featuring guys who acted more like they’d escaped a sailor-themed fraternity than passed a job interview. And guess who the chief mate was? A guy named Nelson—yes, like the legendary British admiral. But let’s just say the only thing our Nelson had in common with the great naval hero was the name. This guy was a disaster on two legs, and over time, he would become the muse for many of my future tales of woe and wonder.

So here I am, the “wise elder” among the crew, trying to focus on the crossing prep while the rest of them are more interested in getting hammered and chasing spring-break romance than preparing for any sort of responsible journey. Now, if you’re experienced like me, you know not to go on a booze-fueled bender the night before a crossing. This is the time to ensure things are in order, double-check supplies, and make sure the crew isn’t too wrecked to set sail. But try telling that to a bunch of college-age kids on a tropical island filled with, let’s say, ample “distractions.” So instead of lecturing, I pointed out the places not to go.

Naturally, they all flock to the very dive I advised against—a local bar where drunk tourists are tolerated about as well as a hurricane, but where the college girls flock like moths to a flame, hunting for an “exotic island experience.” And, of course, our dear Nelson heads straight for a bombshell dancing alone, clearly hoping he’s found his ticket to paradise. Except, of course, he’s picked the one girl who happens to be dating the local version of Tony Montana. Cue the drama: as Nelson starts his “charismatic” approach, this island kingpin spots him, storms over, and delivers a Mike Tyson–level punch straight to Nelson’s face. By the time they scraped him off the floor and hauled him to the ER, he was barely recognizable and nearly down an eye.

Naturally, the next day’s departure was off, and our captain was not thrilled. Nelson hobbled back around noon, sporting what looked like a Halloween mask, with both eyes blackened to raccoon-level intensity. As a crew, we all felt for him. But I couldn’t help but remind them—had they listened to me about avoiding certain ahem hotspots the night before a crossing, Nelson might’ve been able to see out of both eyes and saved us the drama. But hey, who am I kidding? Drunk college girls and local beefcake bars are kryptonite to sailors.

Two days later, we finally set sail for the Panama Canal. After a much-needed stop for fuel and provisions, the captain laid down the law: nobody, and I mean nobody, was allowed to leave the boat. By this point, Nelson had healed enough to at least grin about it, and the whole raccoon-eye episode had turned into a running joke among the crew. Sailors, if anything, are kings of dark humor, and so Nelson—now sporting an uncanny resemblance to a raccoon—earned his new nickname: Mapache.

Finding a Job in These “Glorious” Times by Luis Rafael Hurtado. #24/0169.

October 27, 2024 · 2 min read

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Finding a Job in These “Glorious” Times

Ah, 2024. If the job market were a yacht, we’d all be hanging off the edge in a life raft, clinging to hope that some miracle gig with half-decent conditions will finally show up. This year’s job hunt has turned seasoned yacht professionals into desperate scavengers, scraping the bottom of the barrel for anything that remotely resembles employment. For those of us with experience, skills, and perhaps a few modest aspirations, the pickings are slim—and sometimes, humiliating.

Let’s not ignore the yacht-sized elephant here. The global economy has slammed the yachting industry, leaving a wave of overqualified crew wading through dubious “opportunities” that feel less like career moves and more like endurance tests. Many have taken “just-to-get-by” gigs where their biggest accomplishment is surviving the season. And then there are the poor souls waiting for “something better,” looking for a job that actually reflects their talents. Hope springs eternal, right?

And oh, the lovely atmosphere onboard! We’ve been graced with a spectacular display of professionalism—or the lack thereof. Expect lies about job roles, underwhelming paychecks (if they arrive), and more toxic behaviors than a reality TV marathon. Scam job postings are the cherry on top; some recruiters seem to think “you’re lucky we’re offering anything” is a viable pitch.

The simple fix? Hire better, pay fairer, and maybe—just maybe—we’ll see an end to this absurd cycle. Yes, that may mean parting with a few extra dollars, but consider it insurance against the inevitable “new hire nightmare” scene, starring an underqualified, overconfident replacement who turns your season into a soap opera.

Yet despite the current mess, there are still exceptional crew members—officers and heads of department—eager to jump in and make a real difference. They’ve got the experience, the leadership skills, and the dedication to bring their A-game and transform your program into something truly worthwhile.

So, here’s to hoping yacht owners and recruiters stop looking for shortcuts and start valuing the incredible crew still standing, waiting to work their magic onboard. After all, your vessel’s success could be just a better hiring decision away. Let’s hear your thoughts in the comments—unless you’re already too busy fixing someone else’s mess.

My Platonic Love Affair with the Onboard Stewardess by Luis Rafael Hurtado. #24/0164.

October 25, 2024 · 2 min read

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My Platonic Love Affair with the Onboard Stewardess

Ah, the stewardess—a true unsung hero of the yachting world. Imagine it: a romantic, almost Shakespearean figure silently, diligently giving everything she’s got to an industry that, just like an ill-fated love affair, eventually casts her aside for someone younger, fresher, and with a bit more… vigor. They say love hurts, but what could be more painful than being a stewardess in yachting?

These ladies start with dreams of glamour, only to find themselves at sea (literally and figuratively) in a lifestyle that’s less “luxury cruise” and more “upscale captivity.” Some stick around, hopeful they might cross paths with someone famous who will swoop in and rescue them from this whirlpool of high expectations and low appreciation. They’ve got visions of champagne-soaked proposals from millionaires or Hollywood heartthrobs, but often it’s the captain or an engineer offering a well-deserved escape—a rare life raft in this luxury prison.

And let’s be honest: nobody really notices the magic they create. Those pristine cabins? Those crisp, wrinkle-free linens? Or the dinner table, set with military precision and symmetry? It’s like they’re an army of invisible hands weaving this illusion of perfection, yet guests (and even the crew) pass through it like ghosts. Nobody asks, “Wow, who arranged these forks with the accuracy of a NASA engineer?” And does anyone even pause to marvel at their shirts, ironed to perfection, hanging in their closets like soldiers ready for parade?

A paycheck, tips, a handful of days off… Is that really enough for someone who essentially builds a home on the open sea? These stews craft an atmosphere, not unlike a luxury hotel meets private confinement, yet without so much as a whispered “thank you.”

Sure, May 31 is the big day for flight attendants, but where’s International Yacht Stewardess Day? In my view, it should be every day. So here’s a toast to the stews: the real MVPs who run the ship and hold up the illusion of yachting glamour with one hand while folding towels into origami masterpieces with the other.

The Art of Crew Meals: How Great Food Boosts Morale by Luis Rafael Hurtado. #24/0163.

October 25, 2024 · 2 min read

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The Art of Crew Meals: How Great Food Boosts Morale  

Let’s face it: feeding the crew can either be the highlight of the day or the slow death of morale. Picture this—crew meals that are a sad, tasteless reminder of last night’s leftovers or, worse, meals so heavy they put everyone in a food coma. That’s not exactly setting the stage for a well-oiled team of energetic, happy workers. But fear not! Crew meals don’t have to be boring or bland, and when done right, they can skyrocket morale and productivity.

First off, crew meals should be fun—and by fun, I don’t mean throwing mystery meat into a salad and hoping no one notices. I’m talking about making meals an experience, something people look forward to. A little variety, a dash of creativity, and you’ve got yourself an army of happy crew members. Whether it’s themed taco days or simply experimenting with new flavors, putting effort into crew meals shows that you care about the people you work with (and let’s be honest, it keeps them from forming mutinies).

Now, let’s tackle the “healthy, tasty, and simple” trifecta. Think about lunch for a moment—it’s the mid-day anchor that can make or break productivity. Heavy meals that sit in the stomach like a lead balloon? Yeah, those will guarantee the crew dragging through the rest of the day, fighting the urge to nap under a deck. Keep it light but flavorful. Fresh salads, grilled meats, and vibrant veggies can offer taste without the bulk. It’s like saying, “I care about you… but I also care that you can still function after lunch.”

And here’s where the sarcasm kicks in—because we all know that someone will always complain, no matter how great the food is. “But where’s my cheesy fries?” or “Can we have pizza again?” Look, I’m not saying you should deny the crew comfort food entirely. There’s a time and place for indulgence. But less is more, especially at lunch. Giving them a rich lasagna at noon is pretty much the same as saying, “I dare you to stay awake and productive.”

The truth is, good food directly impacts crew morale. When meals are healthy, tasty, and simple, everyone wins. The crew feels appreciated, energy levels stay up, and the workday flows smoothly. Plus, you might avoid a few hangry outbursts, which is always a bonus. The secret? Focus on quality ingredients, bold flavors, and a little fun. You’ll have a team that’s ready to work—and one that’ll actually look forward to mealtime.

Because let’s be real—nothing says, “I love this crew” like feeding them something other than the sad remnants of last week’s freezer surprise.