FREELANCE Chefs VS. LONGEVITY
Yachting Culture .25/1068. By Chef Tom Voigt.
FREELANCE Chefs VS. LONGEVITY Chefs – The SEAL 6 of Life and Yachting
Brothers and Sisters Beyond the Comfort Zone
During high season, we’re the heroes of the galley. The industry relies on us. But we’re not always treated like real top chefs.
– For Chef Tiago Balsini – R.I.P.
By Chef Tom Voigt
If I could rewind the clock 15 years, I might’ve stayed on board.
A permanent chef. Fleet Chef de Cuisine, good package, steady paycheck, same boss, same preferences and room to be creative with my sous vide stick collection, with a real BBQ, nitrogen tank, the whole wonders of this universe.
But I wouldn’t have known my daughter.
I wouldn’t have those memories of her crying every March as I packed my bags.
Charter season. Galley madness. The battlefield.
Like so many of my brothers and sisters, I made a different call.
We left the safe jobs and walked straight into the fire.
We became freelance chefs.
Mercenaries.
Fixers.
Part Bourdain, part Bottura, part Ana Roš – with a dash of MI6 and James Bond.
When a boat goes sideways, sure, the alarm goes out.
To agencies. WhatsApp groups. Everyone scrambles.
And suddenly it’s a feeding frenzy.
Everyone who’s ever cooked for Grandma sends in a CV and photos of their Sunday roast.
But then someone makes the real call.
They don’t want just anyone.
They want someone who’s seen chaos, cleaned it up, and left it better.
They want us.
The quiet ones who come in when others walk out – and somehow pull off miracles overnight.
We show up with zero onboarding, zero sleep, and half a suitcase of knives and hope.
No welcome. No handover. Often not even a bed.
Just broken pans. Blunt knives. A fridge at +12°C.
A galley that smells like neglect and deep fryer trauma.
We smile, we unpack, we work.
Not because we owe anyone anything.
But because that’s who we are.
That’s what we do.
My freelance brothers and sisters are not Plan B.
We’re the strike team when things go wrong.
We show up when the permanent chef needs to fly home because the girlfriend’s/boyfriends leaving,
or grandma passed,
or the sketchy architect in Fiji took off with the deposit for his new beach house.
We’re there when stress takes over.
When alcohol, burnout, or life itself messes with the food.
When nobody remembers how to plate a damn steak.
We hop on planes, buses, ferries – donkeys if we have to – just to fix the mess.
We don’t ask questions.
We get the job done.
And then we’re gone.
Our résumés are long.
Too long for HR.
Too scattered for recruiters.
Too real for this industry’s fake stability complex.
But every line tells a story.
Of holding things together when others ran.
Of cleaning up disasters, not causing them.
Of showing up, again and again.
And still – we get labeled:
“Unstable. Uncommitted. Risky.”
Truth is, we’re the stable ones.
We’re the calm in the storm.
We don’t need warm-ups.
We fix, we cook, we carry the load.
And when it’s done – we roll out, clean and quiet, invoice in hand.
To our permanent brothers and sisters – we see you.
You keep systems running.
You train, organize, manage.
You know exactly how the boss wants his watermelon sliced.
You’re the reason yachts don’t implode weekly.
But when they do –
it’s us you call.
We live off improvisation.
Off turning half a zucchini, three limes, and a jar of tahini into an eight-person lunch with plating worthy of a lifestyle shoot.
We don’t get insurance.
We don’t get loyalty perks.
We barely get sleep.
But we keep what matters:
Pride.
Skill.
Love for the work.
We are many.
Men. Women. Old dogs. Young firecrackers.
Chefs with kids, dogs, bills, and a home we miss but rarely see.
We didn’t fail. We just chose freedom.
We’re not flaky. We’re sharp.
Not disposable. We’re essential.
Sometimes we dream of landing a permanent post.
A real contract.
A fridge that holds a steady 41°F, not Caribbean 54.
A team that doesn’t leave mid-charter.
But until then – and maybe forever – we keep moving.
Sleeping light.
Watching for distress flares.
And at the end of a long day – after 17 hours on our feet, 2 hours of broken sleep, and zero applause –
we lie down in a stranger’s bunk, using a towel as a pillow, and think:
“That was close. But we nailed it.”
For you.
For us.
For the madness we call this industry.
For what really matters.
For Tiago.
For my brothers and sisters.
For the ones who cook with an empty fridge, a dying battery, and a full soul.