Author: Luis Rafael Hurtado

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

November 13, 2024 · 3 min read

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Tales of the Tipping Tyrant: When Greed Meets Karma by Luis Rafael Hurtado. #24/0160.

October 19, 2024 · 3 min read

Tales of the Tipping Tyrant: When Greed Meets Karma

Ah, life on the high seas! Sun, surf, and the promise of fat charter tips—unless, of course, you’re working under Captain McGreedy and his equally ambitious First Lady. You see, Captain McGreedy was a bit of an artist when it came to tips. But not the good kind of artist. More like the kind who sketches little lies and half-truths in the margins of reality, turning your hard-earned tips into his “retirement plan.”

It all started when we wrapped up a fantastic 12-day charter in New England. The guests were practically swimming in delight over my cooking. In fact, the head guest had initially hated rice with a burning passion. By day 12, I had him eating paella and risotto like it was the nectar of the gods. Exceeding expectations? We were crushing them.

So, imagine our surprise when Captain McGreedy called a “tip meeting” in the main saloon. Now, tip meetings are usually a cause for excitement. The crew gathers, hearts racing with the sweet anticipation of well-deserved cash. But this time, Captain McGreedy had a different vibe—his face pulled tight in a look of faux sadness, like a bad actor in a daytime soap opera.

He sighed, dramatically, of course, before dropping the bomb: “The guests… well, they were disappointed. And, uh, they only left $350 each in tips.”

Cue the crew’s stunned silence. $350?! For a 12-day charter? Even if the guests had hated the sunset views, the gourmet food, and the fresh sea breeze, $350 wouldn’t cover the price of their guilt for breathing oxygen on board.

I refused to believe it. After all, the head guest had been practically begging me for my personal information so I could cook for his next event. I mean, who invites the chef to their house if they’re unhappy? So, I did what any logical person would do: I told Captain McGreedy I was going to call the head guest to ask what went wrong. You know, just to clear the air.

And that’s when McGreedy’s face turned the color of a lobster being boiled alive. “Oh no, you can’t call him!” he stammered. “That’s, uh, not allowed!”

Not allowed? Please. I had the guest’s phone number in my pocket. He had practically hand-delivered it, along with rave reviews about my food. So, I calmly informed Captain McGreedy that I would indeed be calling. I mean, what did I have to lose? I wasn’t about to let a $350 tip and a fabricated sob story fly under my radar.

That’s when McGreedy disappeared into his cabin with his wife—who, coincidentally, had been included in both halves of the tip calculation. Talk about double-dipping! About 45 minutes later, Captain McGreedy emerged, looking suspiciously less panicked.

“Oh, uh, I made a mistake,” he muttered. “Turns out, the guests actually left $3,000 each.”

Mistake? Sure, and I’m a world-class ballet dancer. The little weasel had been caught red-handed, and there was no way to wriggle out of this one.

As soon as the tip hit my hand, I did what any self-respecting crew member would do: I gave my resignation, packed my bags, and left the boat faster than Captain McGreedy could say “shared tip pool.” Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you can’t trust a captain who’s more interested in docking your tip than docking the boat.

The Tale of the Reluctant Chief Stewardess – AKA The Captain’s Wife by Luis Rafael Hurtado. #24/0152.

October 14, 2024 · 3 min read

The Tale of the Reluctant Chief Stewardess – AKA The Captain’s Wife

Ah, life on a 120ft yacht, where the sun shines, the sea glistens, and the Captain’s wife—let’s call her Madam Chief Stewardess—is onboard against her will. Why? Because the Captain, in his infinite wisdom (or paranoia), decided it was safer to drag her along rather than leave her at home where she might gasp become unfaithful.

Now, Madam didn’t actually want to be on the boat. In fact, the only thing she liked less than being on the boat was the concept of working on the boat. But that’s a small detail, right? So, to justify her presence—and her complete lack of interest in manual labor—the Captain bestowed upon her the glorious title of Purser. Because nothing says “qualified for leadership” like being the Captain’s spouse with zero motivation or skill. She will disappear all day to go provisioning and return to the boat past 7:00 pm with only two bags, one from Victoria Secret and another one from Sephora looking like she just took a shower and demanding dinner! You got the picture right! A real priority was to keep a permanent sun tan. She will have at least 30 bathing suits, one for each day of the month and if you sew all the bathing suits together you wouldn’t have enough material for a dinner napkin!

Madam quickly established her reign of laziness. Her first decree? Delegation. Why should she bother with actual work when she could just tell the crew what to do… poorly? Need provisions ordered? Don’t bother Madam with silly details like quantities or quality. Just hope the galley can survive on two lemons, three cans of tuna, and a bottle of rosé. (Priorities, right?)

As for paperwork? Oh, please. Let’s just say that Madam’s version of “managing finances” was closer to playing Monopoly. When she wasn’t doing the bare minimum, she was honing her skills in her true calling: being a general nuisance. Every complaint from the crew, every minor inconvenience, somehow spiraled into a full-blown crisis under Madam’s expert (read: utterly useless) guidance.

And let’s not forget her favorite pastime: making everyone miserable. Need some towels? “Why didn’t you ask me earlier?” Want help with a guest request? “I’m on a break, darling.” Meanwhile, the rest of the crew slaved away, picking up the slack from her endless stream of excuses and “emergencies” that involved absolutely no emergencies at all—unless you count chipped nail polish.

As the boat drifted through paradise, the crew wasn’t just sinking under waves of work—they were drowning in Madam’s inefficiency. But hey, at least the Captain didn’t have to worry about her cheating. Too bad he was oblivious to the fact that the real affair was happening between his wife and the yacht’s most comfortable lounge chair.

So, the next time you find yourself working on a luxury yacht, just pray the Purser isn’t also the Captain’s personal liability twenty years younger. Otherwise, you might be in for a trip where the real challenge isn’t navigating the ocean—but surviving Madam’s reign of lazy terror.

To Beef or Not to Beef: The Perils of Going Vegan on a Yacht by Luis Rafael Hurtado. #24/0150.

October 10, 2024 · 2 min read

To beef or not to beef

To Beef or Not to Beef: The Perils of Going Vegan on a Yacht

Ah, the yachting life—sun, sea, and now… quinoa? In an industry where caviar flows like champagne and Kobe beef is just a Tuesday lunch, we’re starting to see a new trend: veganism. But not just any kind of thoughtful, gradual shift. No, I’m talking about those who give up meat overnight because they read an article in Cosmopolitan that swore a plant-based diet would expand their social circle and give them glowing skin. Spoiler alert: it’s not working out as planned.

Take the second stew, for example. She’s vegan now, and so is her ass—wider than a yacht at anchor. The dream of becoming a svelte green goddess? Not exactly. You see, this isn’t some balanced, nourishing veganism. This is the kind of veganism that involves carb-loading on vegan donuts, bingeing on soy everything, and wondering why the salad isn’t doing its magic. Overweight and undernourished, the stew now battles mood swings that change faster than the tides, and her energy levels are lower than the ship’s anchor.

Then there’s the serious repercussion of mood swings when the stew’s blood sugar plummets mid-service. One minute, she’s arranging the gluten-free hors d’oeuvres like they’re works of art; the next, she’s questioning her life choices while clutching a spirulina shake.

And let’s not forget the entire crew’s reaction when vegan meals make their way into the galley. “No steak? No fish? What did we do to deserve this?” It’s a mutiny waiting to happen, folks. Sure, the stew may have gained a few more plant-based friends, but at the cost of a very hungry crew who now secretly hoard beef jerky in their cabins like it’s contraband.

So, before you give up meat because Cosmo says it’s the key to a new social life, remember: veganism isn’t one-size-fits-all. Especially when you’re on a yacht with a crew that just wants a juicy burger after a 12-hour shift.