Hub - Hostage in Dubai

Hostage in Dubai: A Tale of Karaoke, Chaos, and Captain Clueless

Ah, Dubai. The glittering playground of luxury yachts, where dreams of smooth sailing often sink beneath the waves of drunk Chief Stews and karaoke meltdowns. And here I am, locked in my cabin, living out what feels like the worst episode of Below Deck ever filmed.

Let me set the stage: it all started with karaoke night. I joined my Chief Stew and some random guy she fished out of Dubai’s nightlife, like he was the catch of the day. (Spoiler alert: he wasn’t.) I dared to sing along—a crime so heinous it apparently shattered her trust in me forever. Fast forward a few hours, and she’s drunk, jealous, and shoving me around in front of the Captain like a diva auditioning for a bad telenovela.

Now, you’d think the Captain would step in, defuse the situation, and suggest the Chief Stew sleep off her tequila tantrum. Not Captain Clueless. His grand solution? Kick me off the yacht. Yes, you heard that right. His idea of conflict resolution was to wake me up at 4 a.m. (and again at 9 a.m.) with an ultimatum: “Move to a hotel, or I’ll call the police.”

The police. In Dubai. For what, exactly? Singing off-key at karaoke? He knows there’s no crime, no broken rules, and no evidence of anything other than the Chief Stew’s poor life choices. But hey, why let logic ruin the fun?

Here’s the kicker: I don’t have money for a hotel. I suggested staying in an empty cabin instead. After two rounds of negotiations (yes, two, because apparently, I’ve added “hostage negotiator” to my résumé), he reluctantly agreed. It’s painfully clear the Captain’s not neutral—he’s bending over backward to appease the Drunken Diva, facts be damned.

So now, I’m stuck here, locked in my cabin, like a castaway on a luxury yacht. All because I dared to sing. And let’s not forget: under international maritime law, the vessel is obligated to repatriate me to my home country, no matter how fragile the Chief Stew’s karaoke ego may be. That’s right—they have to get me home. Unless they’re planning to rebrand this yacht as the SS Hostage Crisis, they’d better start booking my flight.

As for the Chief Stew? I’m hoping she wakes up sober—and maybe with a shred of dignity left. But given her current track record, I won’t hold my breath. Until then, I’ll be here, humming “I Will Survive” under my breath and plotting my dramatic escape from this floating madhouse.