Category: Yachting Culture

Day in the Life: Diary of a Stewardess

With Courtesy of Erica Lay & The Mallorca Bulletin. #25/1103.

Erica Lay owner of EL CREW International Yacht Crew Agency http://www.elcrewco.com/ erica@elcrewco.com

06:00 – Rise and Regret

Bleary-eyed and already sweating. It’s going to be 34 degrees today and we’re anchored off Ibiza, which means the UV index is at skin-sizzling levels and the chief stew is already on her third espresso. I start my day with a silent prayer to the gods of lint rollers and linen spray.

07:00 – Breakfast Bingo

The guests want “something light.” Translation: seven kinds of fruit cut into exact geometrical shapes, almond croissants flown in from Paris, oat milk that we just realised expired last night (there’s only one brand they like and until today didn’t want it), and a cucumber sliced in a way that apparently only the former chef on that other boat knew how to do. Also Greek yogurt, some local honey “can you just go grab some from a farm shop or something?” (we’re at anchor), pancakes and bacon. And guess who’s got to tell the chef? Me. Yay.

08:30 – Laundry Round One

Eight towels, five bikinis, four kaftans, and one pair of board shorts with mysterious pink stains that I’m just going to ignore and toss into a delicates bag, all from one couple. The Miele washing machine beeps at me in German. I pretend not to understand and hit ‘Start’ anyway.

09:45 – Hydration Hysteria

Guests request eight still, six sparkling, four room-temp, two on ice, and one infused with chlorophyll and remorse waters. None will be drunk. Every single bottle will be left sweating on a table and then passive-aggressively complained about later.

10:30 – SPF and Stains

Clean the ridiculously shiny aft deck table. Again. I polished it before breakfast. Then I polished it after breakfast. I will polish it again in an hour. Every handprint is a personal insult. Every greasy paw mark from SPF 50+ is a battle scar. I could identify each guest by fingerprint at this point.

11:00 – Nap Ninja

Chief stew sends me for a power nap. Out cold in three seconds, achieve 29 glorious minutes of snoozle. I’m now better at sleeping to order than the military.

12:00 – Lunchtime Chaos

Salad for the ladies, three steaks for the lads. One child demands pasta shaped like dinosaurs. When informed that we have no dinosaur pasta, he cries. I cry internally. We agree on spaghetti but only if I arrange it like a volcano. I comply. Chef watches me get elbow deep in tomato sauce creating Mount Vesuvius, whilst filming it for his TikTok with a running commentary.

14:00 – Bedroom Ballet

Turndowns and towel swaps. I fluff pillows with military precision. I spritz lavender pillow mist like it’s holy water. I find a soggy sock under a guest’s mattress. I retrieve it with barbecue tongs and throw it into the angry Miele.

15:00 – Laundry Round Two

Someone’s used three towels to lie on for 15 minutes. They are now “wet” and must be washed. The chief stew just ironed 24 napkins that are unlikely to survive the first course.

16:00 – Stain & Blame

Emergency spot-clean of a wine spill in the salon. The culprit blames the “rough seas.” We haven’t so much as listed a millimetre in four hours. However, I smile and nod sympathetically.

17:30 – Sundowners & Shenanigans

Ten glasses polished. Ten more polished again because someone walked past and breathed near them. Tray service with mini crab cakes, which the guests say smell weird. They ordered them. Yesterday. And loved them. Chef laughs and puts them out for crew. They’re delicious. I’ve eaten seven.

19:00 – Dinner, Drama & Dress Codes

The theme is “Mediterranean chic.” The guests are all dressed up and we’ve changed into our evening uniforms which are not chic, or Mediterranean. The sun’s still screaming and we’re in black. Guests want five courses and want them fast so they can go ashore and go clubbing. Someone drops a knife. Someone else drops a glass. I drop the will to live. Face starting to ache from all the smiling. Sweat is gathering on my top lip like an unflattering moustache.

22:30 – Turndown Time

Remove chocolate wrappers from pillowcases. When did they have time to eat those? Straighten bedsheets like a hospital corner competition finalist. Remove mysterious bikini from the corridor. Don’t ask.

00:00 – Bedtime Breakdown

Lights out, handed over to night shift who will be waiting for the call to pick up drunk guests from shore in the tender in a few hours when they’re all Pacha’d out. Collapse into bunk. Consider joining a convent. Or a tattoo parlour. Or literally anywhere where no one ever says “I asked for Arctic meltwater and this tastes suspiciously Alpine?”

Repeat until charter ends or until you start answering the iron when it rings.

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.

Diary of a Chief Officer: The Deck Daddy and Diplomacy Referee.

With Courtesy of Erica Lay & The Mallorca Bulletin. #25/1097.

Erica Lay owner of EL CREW International Yacht Crew Agency http://www.elcrewco.com/ erica@elcrewco.com

05:45 – Briefing & Bracing

Up before sunrise, armed with black coffee and a clipboard. I scan the day’s schedule, check the weather, and draft a mental apology for whatever the bosun’s about to do to my maintenance plan.

06:30 – The First Radio Call

The bosun’s already radioed twice—once for a missing deckie, once because a beanbag has exploded. I haven’t even made it to the bridge. I say “Copy that” in a tone that suggests I’m reconsidering every life choice I’ve ever made.

07:00 – Deck Walk & Damage Control

Walk the deck, spot three things no one reported, and one that was “definitely fixed yesterday.” Quietly fix one myself because it’s faster than paperwork. Consider whether it’s too early for ibuprofen.

08:00 – Meeting with the Captain

Update the Captain on logistics, crew morale, and whether our youngest deckhand is still learning knots from TikTok. Discuss the guest itinerary, rest hours, and the philosophical question of whether the AV system is ever truly working.

09:30 – HR Mediation Round 1

Get pulled into a stew–deckie argument about cleaning zones. One claims she was “emotionally steamrolled,” the other insists he “can’t be controlled by rotas.” I channel my inner therapist and suggest they go clean literally anything.

11:00 – Safety Check & Document Doom

Update the maintenance tracker, adjust ISM checklists, and attempt to decipher the engineer’s handwriting on a service log. It reads “left widget thingy squawked.” That’s fine. Normal. Chief Stew radios: guests want the Captain. Captain says, “Tell them I’m in a meeting.” He’s on the sun deck ranking guest shoes.

12:30 – Lunch? Allegedly

Grab a tray of salad and eat it at my desk while emailing the management company about crew certificates. Interrupted: “Sorry, but the boss says the sun’s in his eyes—can we reposition the yacht?” Naturally. Because the Earth’s axial tilt is clearly our fault.

14:00 – Tender Ops Supervision

Coordinate guest drop-off. Spot a deckhand docking the tender like he’s playing Mario Kart. Offer polite correction. Mentally scream. Recoil a line myself. Smile. Die inside.

15:00 – HR Mediation Round 2

Resolve a spat between the bosun and sous chef about who’s been yelled at more this week. Hand them both a cookie and say I’m proud. I’m not. But they looked like they needed it.

16:30 – Paperwork, Policies, and a Panic Drill

Update the muster list. Schedule a fire drill. Chief Stew asks if it’s “mandatory.” I ask if breathing is. The alarm goes off; one deckhand dives for cover. Not wrong energy, just misplaced.

18:00 – Guest Sundowners & Subtle Supervision

Guests out on deck. Beanbags arranged. Bosun twitching. I linger nearby in case someone takes a selfie on the rail again. Intercept a stew about to light a lantern with hairspray. Crisis averted. Guests ask what my role is. I reply, “Safety officer, personnel manager, spare tender driver, floating therapist, professional apologiser.”

20:00 – Bridge Watch & Existential Reflections

Radar purring. Radio quiet. I stare at the horizon, wondering if I’ve become the human embodiment of “Don’t Ask Me, Ask the Captain.” The Captain, naturally, is making cocktails for the guests.

22:00 – Night Rounds & Final Emails

Walk the deck one last time. Spot a loose line, a towel over a radar dome, and someone’s socks on the aft steps. Send polite-but-deadly emails. Schedule tomorrow’s crew meeting: “How Not to Touch Anything You Shouldn’t.”

23:00 – Lights Out. Chief Mode Off.

Fall into bed still wearing epaulettes. Drift off planning my retirement—somewhere quiet, no radios, no beanbags, and absolutely no crew.

With Courtesy of Erica Lay & The Mallorca Bulletin. #25/1094.

Erica Lay owner of EL CREW International Yacht Crew Agency http://www.elcrewco.com/ erica@elcrewco.com

From Olympic campaigns to two America’s Cups and a world championship title, Captain Nik Pearson has lived the high-adrenaline life of a professional sailor. Today, he’s at the helm of SY Unplugged, where he’s traded the chaos of race starts for the art of creating unforgettable holidays. But that competitive spark? It’s still burning—just redirected toward securing the best anchorage in the Med.

From the Start Line to the Sunsets

“I was a bowman in the America’s Cup—right up front where the cameras always found me,” Nik laughs. “Not ideal when you’re trying to sneak a nervous pre-race pee behind the sails, only to gybe and be met by a wall of press boats.”

He recalls a career full of high-stakes moments—being T-boned on a Swan 90, dangling off a spinnaker pole in 30 knots off Trapani—but also one defined by grit and camaraderie. “Every day was nerve-shredding, but the people made it special. Guys like Neil MacDonald, Santiago Lange, or Freddie Carr could lift the crew even after weeks of cold, wet training. The real leader isn’t always the helm—it’s the one everyone listens to because they want to, not because they have to.”

A New Course

After the 2007 Cup, politics and burnout pushed Nik away from racing. “An owner I’d sailed with asked me to captain a 24-metre yacht cruising the world’s best diving and climbing spots,” he says. “It was a dream gig until the 2008 crash killed the project—but by then, I’d crossed to the so-called ‘dark side’ for good.”

Now, his goals are less about podiums and more about perfection. “I’ve just shifted the competition. It’s about creating the best experience for guests—hitting the perfect anchorage, timing the Corinth Canal passage with sunset, or diverting around a storm without them even knowing. Every day has that edge, and I like to nail it.”

Racing Spirit, Charter Heart

When asked what’s harder—keeping a race crew sharp or keeping guests happy—Nik doesn’t hesitate: “Guests. A boatload of alphas trying to run the itinerary individually can be exhausting. I’ve learned to gather them as a group and let them decide collectively before they wear me down one by one.”

Yet he insists the rewards are greater. “It’s the people. Making guests cry happy tears, watching a junior stew grow into a pro, seeing a kid swim for the first time—those are wins that matter.”

Lessons at Sea

From his racing days, Nik carries forward two lessons. “Look after the little people,” he says. “On Cup teams, the shore crew and cleaners got the worst kit and least thanks—it killed morale. Now, I look after the lowest-ranked crew member first. When they feel valued, the whole team runs better.”

And then there’s the mantra of his old coach Jim Saltonstall:

‘Proper Preparation Prevents Piss Poor Performance.’

“The seven P’s are gospel,” Nik grins.

Finding Balance

Superstitions still follow him. “I always throw money into the sea for Neptune. Once it was a note because there were no coins aboard.”

And while he’s seen wild parties on both sides of the industry, one kind stands out: “There’s no party like an America’s Cup ‘oh f*** we’re out’ party. You’ve lost your job, home, and family in a day—but the pressure’s gone, and for one night, you’re free.”

What Makes a Good Owner

“Decency,” Nik says simply. “There are plenty of good boats, not many good owners. I’ve had the same ones for 12 years, and that loyalty means more than any bigger yacht. Boats are replaceable. Good owners aren’t.”

The Captain’s Compass

Asked what he’d tell his younger self, he smiles. “You can’t rush experience. Qualifications get you up the ladder, but experience keeps you there. Too many chase a Master 3000 but can’t read a sea breeze. Learn, watch, absorb—it all counts later.”

And the dream? “An explorer-style motor yacht going off the beaten path. Or an eco-sailing cat that pushes the limits with solar and regeneration tech. I like anything that moves the game forward.”

Before signing off, he adds one last thought:

“Don’t take life for granted. Live every day as if it’s your last—you never know when that day will be.”

Pull Quotes

• “Racing is a drug and yes, I miss it every day. Now I just race for the best anchor spot.”
• “The leader isn’t the helm – it’s the person everyone listens to because they want to, not because they have to.”
• “You can’t rush experience. Qualifications get you up the ladder fast, but experience keeps you there.”
• “Boats are easy to replace – good owners aren’t.”

#25/1091.

The Mystery of the Blacklist – A eulogy for Francis – and for everyone who didn’t fit the script.

by Chef Tom Voigt

R.I.P. Francis

In the belly of almost every boat, deep down in a dark bilge, hangs a board. Cracked by brackish seawater, reeking of rot. It sways with the rhythm of the waves, lost in the half-light, among crates, sour wine, and the luggage of crews long gone overboard, never found, never spoken of again. There it dangles: the Blacklist.
Yes, it exists. No myth, no rosy tale from Antibes. Real, rusty, indelible. And as true as McDonald’s food being crap, Francis’s name is on it.
Francis, born in the late sixties. Survivor of his own abortion attempt—his mother tried to get rid of him, no chance. A fighter before he was even human. His father did the rest, beating him through childhood. Until the day Francis turned sixteen. The old man raised his fist again, and Francis hit back. A dry hook, precise like his cooking would later be. Father on the floor, son packed his bag and disappeared.
He landed in a kitchen. In the eighties that meant hard school. A master took him in, a mentor who taught him that cooking was war, that knives weren’t just to be cleaned but sharpened, that timing ruled everything. Francis absorbed it. Twenty years in restaurants followed. Discipline, heat, sweat. Plates leaving the pass like clockwork. No gimmicks, no Instagram towers. Just craft. He loved it. The kitchen was home, ring, battlefield.
And still, something was missing.
In the early nineties he sat in his grandparents’ bar when an old captain with yellow fingers and rum breath spoke to him. “Crossing,” he said. Spain to Antigua. “Need a chef.” Francis barely knew what a crossing was, but he said yes. Weeks later he stood on a 60-meter yacht. VHS instead of Netflix. Dolphins instead of Instagram. Books instead of endless swipe chatter. Cooking, waves, sun. Silence. Freedom and calm, sea, fire, and his craft. Francis knew: this was his place.
Yachting in the nineties was different. People read books, real ones. Crew parties smelled of rum, not detox teas. Gluten-free? Nobody had heard of it. Vegan deckhands? Not even born yet. Instead of smoothie culture, there were real talks, real jokes, real fights. Francis fit in like the drum solo in In the Air Tonight.
He rose quickly. Owners loved him: charming, precise, flawless in front of guests. A butler in a chef’s jacket. Polyglot, five languages, a professional who shone in the cosmopolitan circus without ever begging for approval. Engineers respected him because he had no arrogance. Captains with balls tolerated him.
But the stews? A disaster. For Francis they were chickens. Two courses, a certificate in champagne pouring, and suddenly they thought they were queens of the seven seas. They knew nothing about gastronomy but carried themselves like monarchs. Francis called them backpackers in uniform. And he said it out loud—and laughed.
Too loud.
One day his name was on the blacklist. Not written, not stored. Carved into the belly of the industry. And there it stayed. But Francis didn’t care.
The truth: he was too old, too honest, too much of a pro. In a world that suddenly wanted selfies.
After 2000 the industry got washed out. Captains with smoothie cups. Crews who knew more about iPhone filters than sails. Influencers in uniform. All chasing followers, all dopamine junkies, all traveling the world like snobby tourists. Foreign languages? Cosmopolitan manners? Only left on the cocktail menu.
Francis shook his head and laughed. He was the hybrid analog artisan, and in his fifties already dismissed as a dinosaur. He mastered cooking, he could talk, he could stay silent. He could stand before an owner family like a butler, a gentleman, immaculate. But he couldn’t pretend a broken galley was a “small problem.” He couldn’t smile while the oven in a multimillion-dollar operation went cold.
And that was the problem. On yachts you weren’t allowed to be angry. You had to grin like a sheep. No matter if the kitchen was burning. Francis was no sheep. He was a wolf.
He exploded when the equipment failed. He cursed when the service was off. He laughed bitterly when the galley was patched together again like a bone after its third fracture. That earned him the stamp: Drama.
Drama means unfit. Drama means career over.
The irony: he was no drama. He was a pro. Twenty years in restaurants, discipline, precision. But professionalism in the yacht world is only welcome when it’s sugarcoated. Be too honest and you’re out.
And Francis was out.
Many say the blacklist is a myth. Bullshit. It exists. No paper, no registry. Just calls, whispers, emails. An invisible executioner.
Francis wasn’t alone. Whole generations vanished. Chefs, officers, deckhands. Pros with mortgages, families, children. And suddenly: silence. No calls. No jobs. House gone. Wife gone. Future gone.
The blacklist is a guillotine without blood. Quiet, but deadly.
And where there’s shadow, there’s light. The white list. A secret club of friends and pros, invisible. That’s where the survivors are. Not the best chefs, not the best people. Just the best players. The ones who know when to shut up, when to crawl.
Names on that list get the calls, the superyachts, the contracts. Those not on it can have ten thousand Instagram followers—still ends up cooking pasta on 20-meter wrecks.
Francis was never on the white list. He didn’t play. He lived.
After eighteen years it was over. No more calls. The blacklist had swallowed him. Francis moved north, back into restaurants. Plates instead of Instagram. Guests instead of followers. But the system had left its scars.
Cancer. A long, cruel death.
Francis wrote until the end. Cynical, sharp, merciless. His notes said:
– Yachting isn’t a career ladder. It’s an offshore service job.
– Anyone who thinks they’re climbing is only falling harder.
– After yachting, there’s rarely glory. Just debt, divorce papers, no pension.
He wrote about the pretenders. Stews with certificates and selfie filters who replaced the pros. Captains who needed detox. Crews who collected milk varieties instead of experience.
Francis saw it all coming. He still laughed. But he knew: the blacklist is real.
He wasn’t a victim. He was a symbol. For everyone too honest, too old, too real. For the pros pushed out because the industry would rather book young plastic with Instagram profiles than seasoned craftsmen with gray hair.
The blacklist doesn’t erase names. It makes them immortal. Francis still hangs there, rusty, indelible. A warning. A monument, in some bilge, in the belly of a yacht.
And while up on deck the would-be queens with certificates and follower counts sip their champagne, the truth hangs below, in the dark.

With Courtesy of Erica Lay & The Mallorca Bulletin. #25/1092.

Erica Lay owner of EL CREW International Yacht Crew Agency http://www.elcrewco.com/ erica@elcrewco.com

The Sommelier at Sea: How Yachts Are Upping Their Wine Game

By Erica Lay

Yachting has always been synonymous with luxury, but in recent years, the emphasis on food and drink has reached new, grape-soaked heights. Gone are the days of dusty bottles and hurried guesses at what might pair with grilled lobster. Today, top-tier yachts have fully embraced sommelier-level wine service, transforming their cellars and expanding the horizons of both guests and crew.

“You can’t just chuck a few bottles of Dom and a magnum of rosé in the fridge and call it a day,” laughs Tasha, a chief stewardess with a WSET Level 3 qualification under her belt. “Guests want pairings. They want stories behind the wine. And they want it served at the perfect temperature while they eat langoustine on a beach in Formentera.”

Many yachts have climate-controlled wine cellars and dedicated wine fridges, carefully calibrated to maintain the integrity of rare vintages through crossings and summer heatwaves alike. On one 60m charter yacht, the chief stewardess even collaborated with the designers during build to install gimballed shelving that prevents sediment disturbance in rough seas.

“It was either that or explain to a billionaire why his 1982 Mouton Rothschild tasted like soup,” she shrugs.

This evolution isn’t just about better storage. It’s about elevating the entire guest experience. Yacht chefs and interior crew are increasingly taking sommelier courses, working with wine consultants, and visiting local vineyards while docked in places like Mallorca and Menorca. Local sourcing has become a cornerstone of wine service onboard, and not just for cost efficiency. Guests love the story of the vineyard owner who hand-picks each grape, especially when they’re sipping that very wine on deck at sunset.

“We did a pairing dinner with wines from Binissalem last season,” says Pedro, a yacht chef from mainland Spain who spent a week visiting bodegas during the Palma winter refit. “The guests were blown away. They’d never heard of Mantonegro, and suddenly it was their favourite grape. Honestly I thought I knew Spanish wines but I was happy to be corrected — there’s a lot more to experience than Rioja!”

Bodegas like Biniagual, José L. Ferrer, and Can Axartell have become go-to sources for yachts wanting something hyper-local, while Son Mayol and Bodega Ribas offer full-on experiences for guests who want to dive deeper into the island’s wine scene. Some crews are now collaborating with Wine Industry Mallorca, a company that curates private tastings, vineyard visits, and cellar stocking with a strong focus on boutique producers and organic methods.

The challenge? Training and turnover. Not every stew joins the industry with a deep knowledge of vintages, tannins, or the difference between malo and Merlot. But many yachts are now bringing in onboard trainers or offering wine tasting sessions during their summer season cruising around different countries in the Mediterranean. In the world of high-end service, knowing your Montrachet from your Macabeo can be the difference between good and unforgettable.

“It’s not just about wine snobbery,” Tasha insists. “It’s about confidence. When you’re handing a guest a €5,000 bottle, you want to know you’ve got it right.”

And it doesn’t stop with the whites and reds. There’s growing demand for orange wines, low-intervention bottles, and even organic Mallorcan vermouth. Craft is in, and superyachts are expected to keep up.

“Guests are increasingly curious about natural and biodynamic wines,” notes Luca, a steward who recently completed his WSET Level 2. “They want to explore beyond the classic labels, and it’s our job to help guide them through that journey.”

Another trend? Wine experiences as part of the charter itself.

“Last summer we arranged a private vineyard tour and tasting in Alaró for a guest who wanted something truly local,” says Anna, a chief stewardess. “We even stocked the yacht with bottles from the same vineyard for the rest of the week. It was a hit.”

Training opportunities have expanded to meet this demand. Institutions like Onshore Cellars offer WSET Levels 2 and 3 courses tailored for yacht crew, providing comprehensive education in wine styles, service, and pairing.

“Taking the WSET course was a game-changer for me,” says Emily, a junior stewardess. “It gave me the knowledge and confidence to discuss wines with guests and make informed recommendations.”

Some yachts are collaborating with wine suppliers who offer bespoke training sessions onboard, ensuring the crew stays updated with the latest trends and techniques in wine service. Others are experimenting with digital wine lists and pairing apps that help match cellar stock with daily menus, a high-tech touch that’s proving surprisingly useful.

Whether it’s a bespoke wine pairing under the stars or a story-rich bottle from a local vineyard, the wine game at sea is no longer an afterthought.

It’s a performance — and the crew are nailing their lines, one perfectly poured glass at a time.

With Courtesy of Erica Lay & The Mallorca Bulletin. #25/1085.

Erica Lay owner of EL CREW International Yacht Crew Agency http://www.elcrewco.com/ erica@elcrewco.com

𝑫𝒂𝒚 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑳𝒊𝒇𝒆: 𝑫𝒊𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒂 𝑩𝒐𝒔𝒖𝒏

By Erica Lay

𝟬𝟲:𝟬𝟬 – Coffee & Contemplation

Awake before sunrise. Not out of virtue, just stress. Pour instant coffee into my reusable water bottle because the stews have commandeered all the mugs again already. Check the deckhand roster, the to-do list, and the weather. Realise the only thing more unpredictable than the forecast is the junior deckhand’s ability to coil a line.

𝟬𝟳:𝟬𝟬 – Washdown Supervision (and Existential Oversight)

Deckhands are already scrubbing the bow like their lives depend on it. One is polishing the cap rail in a circular motion. We’ve been over this. I correct him with the kind of dead-eyed calm only caffeine and trauma can produce. The junior deckhand asks if we can “just use a pressure washer on the varnish.” I smile. He’ll learn. Deckhand 3 asks if we “really have to rinse the salt off every day.” I say no. Just every day we want the boat not to dissolve.

𝟬𝟴:𝟭𝟱 – The First Crisis of the Day

Chief stew radios in: “The guest thinks the kayak smells weird.” Deckie 2 looks panic-stricken. I tell him to Febreze it and act like it’s normal. Because on this boat? It is.

𝟬𝟴:𝟮𝟱 – The Second Crisis of the Day

I ask who used the stainless polish on the cushions. No one makes eye contact. I now understand how substitute teachers feel.

𝟬𝟵:𝟯𝟬 – Toy Time

Break out the tender, SeaBobs, SUPs, and enough inflatables to qualify us as a bouncy castle company. I supervise while the junior deckie fumbles with a lashing strap like it’s a Rubik’s Cube made of elastic.

𝟭𝟬:𝟰𝟱 – Training Time (aka Herding Cats)

Try to run a knot-tying session. Deckhand 3 asks if he can “just watch a YouTube video instead.” I pause long enough to make them uncomfortable, then carry on. They’ll thank me when they’re trying to tie a bowline in 40 knots in front of guests whilst crying inside.

𝟭𝟮:𝟯𝟬 – Lunch and Logistics

The chef offers “crew salad.” That’s code for lettuce, rage, and the lingering shame of yesterday’s pizza. I eat half, pretend I’m full, and then write up tomorrow’s deck job list while staring out the porthole like a prisoner in a luxury jail.

𝟭𝟰:𝟬𝟬 – Supervised Polishing (Emotional and Physical)

Time to teach the team the art of stainless without streaks. Deckie 1 uses half a bottle of polish on a single handrail. Deckie 2 is polishing a stanchion that doesn’t exist. Deckie 3 is missing. I find him rearranging fenders to “make them look vibey.” I die a little inside.

𝟭𝟲:𝟬𝟬 – The Anchor Ballet

Guests want to move the boat “just a little” for the sunset view. Anchor up. Anchor down. My radio explodes with questions like “Is this good?” No. It never is. But we move anyway because the boss saw a dolphin, and now we’re chasing a National Geographic moment.

𝟭𝟵:𝟬𝟬 – The Beanbag Ordeal

We set up for sundowners on the bow. The wind picks up. A beanbag hits a guest in the face. Everyone looks at me like I summoned it. I swear I didn’t. I wish I had that kind of power. A guest asks what I actually do all day and if working on a yacht is “like being on an endless holiday”. I answer with a laugh that sounds suspiciously hysterical.

𝟭𝟴:𝟯𝟬 – When the Sun Goes Down

A guest asks me what time the sunset starts. I point at the sky, and tell them “when the sun starts to go down.” They nod like I’ve revealed a deep maritime secret.

𝟭𝟵:𝟬𝟬 – Evening Checks and Barely Contained Despair

Run the deck checks, tie a perfect cleat hitch (to show off), and fix the flagpole that Deckie 2 somehow dislodged while “adjusting the ensign height for aesthetic balance.” I make a note to revoke his access to adjectives.

𝟮𝟬:𝟯𝟬 – Night Mode Engaged

The deck crew eat a late dinner in five minutes of silence broken only by someone whispering, “I can’t feel my hands.” I tell a joke. No one laughs. Deckie 1 says “Ok Boomer.” I’m 27. Good times. I live for these bonding moments.

𝟮𝟯:𝟬𝟬 – Day’s End. Kind of.

Final check of the toys, the lines, the fenders, and my sanity. Realise I’ve walked 14,000 steps and achieved inner peace through sheer repetition. Tomorrow: same chaos, different stains.

𝟬𝟬:𝟬𝟬 – Lights Out

Lay in bed wondering if I remembered to tie off the tender’s secondary mooring line. Decide I probably did. Fall asleep halfway through the mental checklist. Dream of a crew that understands chamois technique and respects the beanbags.

Let me know if you’d like a companion visual, crew illustration, or social media version of this diary—this deserves to go viral.

With Courtesy of Erica Lay & The Mallorca Bulletin. #25/1080.

Erica Lay owner of EL CREW International Yacht Crew Agency http://www.elcrewco.com/ erica@elcrewco.com

Part 2: Small Marinas, Big Charm – More Under-30m Gems in Mallorca

Last week we checked out some great options for marinas offering lovely surroundings and excellent services for vessels under 30m, but we really only scratched the surface. Let’s check out a few more tucked-away favourites around the island.

Real Club Nàutic Port de Pollença (RCNPP)

Location: North Coast | Max Length: 25m | Draft: 3m | Berths: 375

Heading north, RCNPP is a more laid-back sibling to the busier Alcudia. Located in a wide bay loved by sailors and windsurfers, this marina has a welcoming, unhurried feel. There’s a good mix of services, a decent shipyard if you need repairs, and the town is refreshingly unspoilt.

• Local tip: Grab fresh bread and pastries from the legendary Formentor bakery and picnic along the pine-shaded promenade.
• Dinner pick: Stay – part restaurant, part institution, right on the water.
• Want more culture? Take a short trip inland to the charming town of Pollença.

Porto Petro

Location: South-East | Max Length: 25m (RCNP), 12m (Puerto) | Draft: 3m+ | Berths: 200+

Tiny but mighty, Porto Petro is one of the island’s most picturesque mini-marinas. The vibe? Quiet luxury. Think well-heeled locals, no loud beach clubs, and a calm bolt-hole vibe for those wanting to slip under the radar.

• Eat here: Restaurante Norai is a local favourite.
• Explore: Walk to Mondragó Natural Park for a peaceful swim in protected crystal-clear waters—well away from the jet ski brigade.

The Real Club Náutico Portopetro accommodates up to 25m vessels, whereas the adjacent Puerto de Porto Petro handles yachts up to 12m.

Port d’Andratx

Location: South-West | Max Length: ~30m | Draft: ~4m

While Puerto Portals steals headlines with designer boutiques and Bentley-lined docks, Andratx offers scenic beauty, solid facilities, and a mellow, slow-living vibe that makes you forget what an email inbox even is.

• Dinner options:
  
  • Oliu for something elegant
  • Bar Central for a proper, no-frills menú del día
• It’s also a great base for exploring Mallorca’s wilder western coast.

Colònia de Sant Jordi

Location: South Coast | Max Length: ~20-25m | Quiet Marina

Once a humble fishing village, Colònia de Sant Jordi has grown into a laid-back stopover with easy access to some of Mallorca’s best beaches, including the iconic Es Trenc.

• Seaside stroll: The promenade here is perfect at sunset.
• Sundowner spot: Cassai Beach House has atmosphere in spades.

The marina is small but peaceful—and often overlooked by those heading to louder ports.

Cala Ratjada

Location: North-East | Max Length: ~25m | Solid Facilities

Yes, it’s popular with northern European tourists, but don’t write it off. The harbour area is pretty, the facilities are solid, and the surrounding coastline hides many coves to explore by tender.

• Eat here: Ca’n Maya – excellent grilled fish and a view of the working harbour.
• Worth the detour: Hidden calas and sea caves just around the corner.

⚠️ 

Remember:

 Book Ahead!

As mentioned last week—the bigger your yacht, the more you need to plan ahead. The joy of these smaller marinas is that they’ll often try to squeeze you in… whereas Palma might laugh you off the phone if you didn’t book seven months ago.

Worst case scenario? Drop anchor in one of the nearby bays and tender in for dinner. Speaking of anchorages…

Stay Tuned for Part 3:

🚤 Our Guide to Mallorca’s Best Anchorages – dropping next week!

Yachting Culture #25/1060.

SUPERYACHT ENGINEERS – PART II

The Girls in the Grey: Not your stew. Not your fantasy. Just your last line of defence.

By Chef Tom Voigt

Some guests mistake them for a junior stew…

“Oh how sweet, she’s helping clean the engine room!”

No darling.

She is the engineer.

She’s not helping.

She’s fixing the thing that keeps your rosé cold and your toilet flushing at 3am.

Let’s be clear:

She didn’t fall into engineering because she likes overalls.

She’s here because she’s good.

And because someone needs to crawl through the bilge like a mouse in the shadows to save your sorry weekend from becoming a rescue op.

They call her a unicorn.

They mean it as a compliment.

But really?

She’s more like a Phoenix—

Rising from the ashes of burnt wiring and broken fuel pumps—

Only to show up two hours later in a dress and heels that make the deckhands forget their own names.

She wears high heels that whisper “boardroom” but stomp like “bilge pump.”

Slight hint of diesel.

Heavy notes of don’t even try me.

She disappears like Batman into the underworld of the yacht—

Silent, unseen, deep into the steaming guts of steel, wires, and diesel.

No one noticed…

And then,

She strolls back to our table—flawless, in a dress like a weapon.

Winks without a word and orders a bloody steak.

She sips a very dry martini.

As if nothing had happened.

And maybe nothing had.

Just a minor leak.

Or the beginning of the end.

By day, she’s as precise and versatile as a Navy SEAL, a Swiss Army knife.

When night falls, she’s pure Marly Delina.

Yes, she drinks.

Yes, she swears.

Yes, she can strip a watermaker faster than you can Google “why is my engine smoking.”

She can tell a lie from a pump by ear.

She knows the generators better than her ex.

And she will, without a doubt, drink you under the table on a Tuesday—

Then fix the stabilisers on Wednesday while you nurse your ego and a hangover.

She doesn’t post selfies from the engine room.

Not because she couldn’t.

But because she doesn’t have time for your vanity metrics.

She’s busy keeping the boat alive.

And no, she doesn’t need a hashtag for that.

At crew dinner, she arrives late.

Not because she’s slow.

But because she was still inside a fan belt when you were choosing your shirt.

And when she walks in, smelling faintly of hand soap and heaven—

Everyone goes silent.

Deckhands suddenly find their manners.

Stews take notes.

The captain adjusts his posture.

She doesn’t demand attention.

She is attention.

She is not your dream girl.

She is your emergency contact.

She’s not one of the boys.

She’s not one of the girls.

She’s one of the gods.

And while you wonder how her lipstick stayed on during a coolant flush,

She’s already down in the bilge again—

Saving your trip,

Your pride,

And your engines.

Because real engineering doesn’t care about gender.

But it’s about time yachting started to.

#Yachtgasm

#TheGirlInTheGrey

#DieselAndHighHeels

#SuperyachtPhoenix

#NoEngineerNoYacht

#TorqueMeTender

#GoddessOfTheBilge

#SheKnowsWhatThatNoiseWas