Category: Yachting Culture

With Courtesy of Erica Lay & The Mallorca Bulletin. #25/1113. Erica Lay is owner of EL CREW International Yacht Crew Agency http://www.elcrewco.com/ erica@elcrewco.com

Forget haunted houses… Mallorca’s got ghost ships, phantom bells, and sirens who’d rather sink you than sing for you.

Halloween is mostly about dodgy outfits (Oh, you were Wednesday Addams this year? Original…), harassing old people into giving your kids too much candy, and pretending pumpkin spice doesn’t taste like melted plastic mixed with cinnamon. But while landlubbers busily fuss with skeletons in their closets, sailors have been swapping stories of ships crewed by the dead for centuries. The sea has always been a perfect breeding ground for nightmares: it’s dark, mysterious, and its depths hold more monsters and mythical beasts than a Stephen King novel. So let’s look at some of the tales from the deep, including a couple from our very own Mallorca. Yes, she has a few skeletons in her anchor locker too.

The Famous Ones

The Flying Dutchman: Ghost Ship Royalty

We can’t talk spooky ghost ships without dropping the OG. Think of it as the Kardashians of cursed ships. Captain van der Decken swore he’d round the Cape of Good Hope “if it takes me until Doomsday.” Doomsday said: challenge accepted, Captain Sinky McSinkson. Now, his glowing ghost ship drifts around forever like that one charter guest who just won’t go to bed. Even King George V claimed he saw it in 1881. Imagine being haunted by a ship that exists purely because a Dutch bloke wouldn’t admit defeat. Bet he ignored his wife when she asked him to stop and ask directions.

Mary Celeste: The Original “Where’s Everyone Gone?”

Then there’s the Mary Celeste, the gold standard of “mystery at sea.” Found adrift near the Azores in 1872, she had everything on board; cargo, supplies, lunch still on the table, but no crew. Vanished. Poof. Theories? Mutiny, pirates, giant squid, alien abduction, exploding booze barrels. Basically, the ocean’s longest-running episode of CSI: Maritime Edition.

Now we’ve got those out the way, let’s talk about local lore…

Creepy Local Legends: Because Mallorca’s Too Pretty to Be Innocent

Mallorca looks like turquoise-watered paradise, but dig a little deeper and you’ll find some stories that could make even Magalluf look wholesome.

The Ghostly Galleys of Cabrera

Fishermen whisper about phantom warships gliding silently around Cabrera at night, supposedly the spirits of French soldiers left to rot there after the Napoleonic wars (again, probs too proud to ask for directions). Cabrera: great for snorkelling, also great for eternal damnation.

The Bells Beneath Palma Bay

Old Mallorcan grandmothers (the same ones who will hip-check you out of a supermarket queue whilst smiling sweetly) used to say you could hear drowned church bells ringing from beneath the sea on still nights. Realistically, it’s probably one of the marina fuel pumps choking again, but hey – spooky sells.

The Sirens of Sa Dragonera

Because of course we’ve got sirens. Supposedly, they still sing near the Dragonera islet, luring fishermen with their voices. Nowadays, you’re more likely to be lured in by a menu del dia at Port d’Andratx, but the effect is roughly the same: you lose all your money and possibly your dignity. Also: probably just goats.

Let’s move on. Why were sailors always so superstitious?

Maritime Madness: Beliefs That Aged About as Well as Warm Fish

Long before every boat had Starlink and streamed Netflix 24/7, sailors entertained themselves with terror.

St. Elmo’s Fire: Glowing blue flames on masts during storms. Sailors thought it was God’s wrath. Science says static electricity. Either way: pants ruined.

Davy Jones’ Locker: Once a terrifying watery grave. Now shorthand for where your missing flip-flop went.

Bad Luck Names: No sailing on Fridays, no whistling, and if you’re named Jonah… sorry babe, you’re benched.

Are Yachts Haunted Too?

Classic yachts creak and moan more than your uncle on the dancefloor. One chef swore their bilge had a resident ghost: footsteps, slamming doors, tools “moving themselves.” Skeptics say poor insulation. Believers just nope out and head to the bar.

Final Toast to the Ghosts

So during spooky season, when Palma is crawling with children in glow-in-the-dark skeleton onesies and adults dressed as the Ibiza Final Boss, remember: the real ghosts are still out at sea, whining, wailing and wondering why they don’t get any plastic pumpkins full of Haribo.

And if you’re anchored off Dragonera and hear singing? Don’t panic. It’s either sirens… or a yacht owner, three gins deep, murdering “My Heart Will Go On” at karaoke.

Keep it creepy, Mallorca. And remember: if a phantom schooner slides past your stern tonight… don’t wave. Ghosts hate try-hards.

By Chef Raffie. #25/1104.

Disclaimer: Any resemblance to real yachts, real people, or real disasters is purely coincidental… though if you happen to recognize yourself, congratulations — you’ve officially inspired art.

The Gospel According to Jocelin: Patron Saint of Shiny Trash Cans

Some say she was 32. Others swore she looked 12. Either way, Jocelin Achieves, as she called herself, had mastered the ancient art of faking it until you steal a cutting board.

She claimed to have worked on 80m, 90m yachts — mega-yachts, darling — but couldn’t tell a port side from a pork chop. I asked her once how many liters in a gallon — she blinked twice, allergic to the question. (She’s allergic to everything, by the way. Except designer yoga pants and designer lies.)

Let’s be fair. Jocelin had many talents. Interviewing, for example. She interviewed better than a CIA double agent. She could convince you she invented lemon water. And if you questioned her, she’d just say: “It’s because I’m highly intuitive. And Scorpio.”

Amazon Prime Minister of Provisions

Now provisioning… ah yes… provisioning was her kingdom.

While I was trying to keep provisions realistic — you know, for a two-week boss trip with four kids and a golden doodle — Jocelin shopped as if she were preparing for Armageddon hosted at Burning Man.

“Two beach umbrellas?”

“No Chef, we need SIX. Three for the boat, three for my… I mean… for backup.”

Laundry detergent? Enough to outlive a nuclear war.

Deck shoes? Rotated quarterly like tires on a Ferrari — because nothing says “guest-ready” like new Sperrys every full moon.

Yeti coolers? “Let’s get two, in case one breaks. Or melts. Or floats away in a hurricane.”

And the best part? The extras always had a destination: her house. She said it was “in case we run out, we don’t need to re-provision — just swing by my place, I have a backup pantry.”

You mean… Costco Warehouse North, located at Casa Jocelin.

The Trash Can Heard Around the Dock

Let’s talk about that trash can. A $300 voice-activated robotic trash can that lit up like a spaceship when you approached it. It talked, opened with grace, and probably knew your zodiac sign.

It lasted two months.

Then Jocelin said: “It’s defective. We have to return it.”

The new one arrived. But the old one?

Last seen in Jocelin’s kitchen, housing “organic-only” waste and the dreams of honest yachties everywhere.

Same thing happened with my oak cutting board — three months of seasoning, oiling, bonding with it like it was my firstborn. One day she declared:

“Chef, it’s not visually appealing anymore. The Mrs. wants everything to look new.”

Guess where it went?

Yes. Her house. Next to my frying pan. And my soul.

Christmas Came Early… For Her Entire Family

During the holidays, the crew noticed something strange.

Jocelin was gifting brand new deck shoes to her family. Different sizes. Different colors.

“Wow! So thoughtful!” they said.

Yes, thoughtful indeed — straight from the boat’s Amazon orders, re-gifted with wrapping paper and guilt-free charm.

There were stories of provisioning miracles — snacks disappearing mid-charter only to reappear in her air-conditioned Tupperware closet. And that mystical gallon of almond milk that cost $30 — always one for the boat… and one for home, of course.

Let’s not forget the time she ordered eight brand-new pillows because “the old ones absorbed too many negative emotions.” Naturally, the “used” ones found shelter in her guest bedroom. Sustainability, Jocelin-style.

In Jocelin We Store

She had a lifetime membership at The Container Store. I’m convinced she didn’t just shop there — she was stockpiling for the apocalypse.

We needed one cooler. She bought four.

A new mop? Why not two.

Sunscreen? Gallons.

Tampons? Costco crates.

And always, always… she said:

“Better to have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it.”

Unless it’s honesty. That, apparently, she could live without.

The Jocelin Effect

After a year, we realized something.

The boat always looked sparkling. Everything was new. She was always glowing… because her entire house was fully furnished courtesy of the yacht’s Amazon Prime wish list.

She didn’t just steal stuff.

She manifested it.

She didn’t just over-order.

She achieved it.

And when she left? She called it “graduating.”

We just called it relief.

Final Credits

So next time someone says “fake it till you make it,” just ask:

“You mean like Jocelin — the Patron Saint of Prime Deliveries, Trash Can Thief, and Cutting Board Collector of the Caribbean?”

Because she didn’t just fake it.

She made it sparkle.

And took it home.

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

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

Introduction – The Other Half of the Story

If you’ve ever wondered what keeps a yacht gleaming from bow to stern, it’s not just the polish — it’s the people behind the polish. Following the viral Day in the Life: Diary of a Stewardess, Erica Lay returns with a deckhand’s perspective: the saltier, wetter, and slightly more existential side of yachting life.

It’s a reminder that beneath every sunset photo and champagne flute lies a daily choreography of labour, humour, and quiet heroism — the unfiltered truth of life at sea.

06:30 – The Calm Before the Rinse

Woken by the dulcet tones of my alarm squawking at me and the subtle aroma of sweaty shirts from the laundry bag I forgot to take to the laundry room last night before passing out. My uniform polo has mysteriously shrunk overnight (again). Not sure whether to blame the stews (risky) or accept the fact that the chef’s food is just too good. Head up to the main deck and grab my bucket, brush, squeegee and dignity. Because today is washdown day. Again.

07:15 – Saltwater and Existential Crises

Start at the bow. Salt everywhere. Did the Mediterranean vomit all over us last night? Blast it all off while trying not to spray my own legs. Fail. The bosun walks past with a nod. That’s as close to affection as I’ll get this week. Make a mad dash down to the crew mess for a shot of coffee and see if I left my will to live down there. Spill it all over my shirt. Chef laughs at me and offers me a cookie. Eagerly accept.

08:00 – The Guest Slippers Are Missing

Stew panic on the radio. Guest slippers: vanished. This is code red. I briefly consider abandoning my post to help search, then remember I have 34 more metres of teak to scrub and a nervous breakdown scheduled for 10:45.

09:30 – The Guest Wants to Paddleboard

Guests are appearing on deck after their breakfast. We break out the toys. Inflate the paddleboard. Deflate the paddleboard because they meant the other paddleboard. Reinflate original paddleboard as no, no, they got confused. Fetch paddle, leash, and look for dignity (again).

10:15 – Tender Tantrums

Take another guest ashore in the tender. Smile like it’s not my third round trip in 30 minutes. Get back just in time to be asked to “make it sparkle” for the fourth time today. Resisting the urge to ask if I should bedazzle it.

12:00 – Lunch (Allegedly)

Shovel down crew curry like I’m training for a competitive eating contest. Almost get to sit down before someone radios in that the jet ski is “making a weird noise.” Could be the guest. Could be the jet ski. Either way, it’s my problem now.

13:00 – Jet Ski Crisis

Spend 20 minutes “diagnosing” a perfectly functional jet ski while the guest takes a nap. Wiggle a hose. Tap something authoritatively. Declare it fixed. They thank me like I’m Poseidon himself. Bosun nods approvingly at my deception.

14:00 – Cookie Reconnaissance

Pop down to the galley under the pretense of collecting napkins. Secure three cookies, a banana, and possibly a new lease on life. Chef raises an eyebrow. I salute him with a biscuit.

15:00 – Polishing War Zone

Back to stainless. Fingerprints as far as the eye can see. It’s like guests specifically grease up before touching handrails. If you’ve never wiped down 50 metres of chrome while contemplating your life choices, have you even been a deckhand?

16:00 – Emergency Power Nap

Sneak into the bosun’s locker. Pretend I’m reorganising line bags. Actually nap on a pile of chamois cloths for 12 glorious minutes. Wake up slightly damp, spiritually rejuvenated.

16:30 – Anchor Drama

Radio squawks: “Boss wants to reposition the yacht for a better view of the sunset.” This requires pulling the anchor up, moving 100 metres, and dropping it again. For the fifth time today. Guest satisfaction: 10/10. Crew patience: aggressively unavailable.

18:00 – Guest Drinks on the Bow

Work with the stews to set up beanbags, hurricane lanterns, cocktail tables and an entire Pinterest board of soft furnishings. Wind picks up. Lanterns blow over. Beanbags roll. Guest arrives and asks to sit on the sun deck instead. Swallow a scream. Relocate everything.

19:00 – Dinner Is Served, But Not to Me

Guests dining al fresco. I’m on standby with the tender. Mosquitoes feast on me while I try not to fall asleep.

22:00 – Turndown for What?

Guests head to bed. I sneak into the laundry room to iron my soul back into shape and fold yet another stack of Egyptian cotton beach towels that no one actually used.

23:00 – Finally Done (Sort Of)

Shower. Fall into bunk. Dream of salt, stainless, and a universe without fender scuffs.

Editor’s Note

This series continues our look at The Real Yacht Life — the side that doesn’t show up on the brochure. From the stew’s invisible service ballet to the deckhand’s sunburned endurance, these are the hands that keep the dream afloat.

With Courtesy of Erica Lay & The Mallorca Bulletin. #25/1101.

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

This week, Erica Lay — owner of EL CREW CO International Yacht Crew Agency and author of Superyacht Life: How to Start, Succeed, & Stay Sane — talks to Lauren Bennett, a talented young multitasking aspiring chef (who can also jump on deck or help inside) from Gibraltar.

Lauren’s made it through her first season in yachting and, despite a tumultuous start on a doozy of a yacht (and no, Erica absolutely didn’t place her there), she’s now looking for her next challenge. Brave girl.

For more info on any of our featured crew, contact Erica directly at erica@elcrewco.com.

You’re from Gibraltar — what first brought you to Mallorca?

I went to Mallorca with the first yacht I worked on in July 2025. I stayed a little while and applied for another job on another yacht which took me to Sardinia.

Pre-yachting life — paint us a picture.

I was halfway through my A-Levels (Art, History & Spanish) and decided it wasn’t for me. I wanted to start working on superyachts. I love cooking, love travelling and aspire to become a famous top chef, so I thought, why not start now and go for it?

I completed my Super Yacht Silver – STCW course in Gibraltar and applied to several positions. I was very lucky to land my first position in Spain as a chef/stew. Next year, I hope to attend Le Cordon Bleu Culinary School in Paris to further my passion for the culinary arts.

How did you first break into the industry — was it glamorous or a shock to the system?

Most certainly a shock. The first yacht I worked on was not pleasant. I was the only female crew member on board, working as both chef and stew. The hours were long and it was a lot to run my two departments solo.

There was a crew of three — me, a moody captain, and a drunken deckhand. I remember thinking, “Am I doing the right thing here?” I didn’t feel comfortable or safe, and I didn’t have anyone to talk to. Luckily my mum was always there — she kept me sane!

(Editor’s note: If crew ever find themselves in a situation like this, please know you’re not alone. Get somewhere safe and seek help — police, a trusted friend, agent, or another crew member. You can also reach out to Yacht Crew Help for confidential support.)

Proudest or most unforgettable moment onboard?

Proudest was when the owners and guests asked for seconds of my meals.

Unforgettable was when I was abandoned in the middle of Palma after the drunken deckhand left me at a bar. He was almost arrested for being violent and drunk. It was scary — hence why I left the yacht.

What made you continue in the industry after that baptism by fire — stubbornness, love of cooking, or sheer madness?

I didn’t want to be a quitter — I felt that would be failing. But after the bar incident, when I told the captain and he didn’t care, I knew it was best to leave.

What do you love most about galley life?

Seeing people’s faces when they love my food presentation and its rich flavours. Seeing land from the sea — a view you wouldn’t normally see. The best sunsets and sunrises ever. Meeting new people in amazing ports.

And what’s the toughest part (that guests will never know)?

How you must be in three places at once — it’s crazy.

Craziest or funniest guest request?

On the second yacht I worked on, the owner’s child wanted pasta all the time — breakfast, lunch and dinner. He was great, so funny and cute.

Who would you love to host on board?

Not really bothered, so long as they’re nice!

Dream yacht and dream destination — no budget limits.

Monaco. Love that place. Dubai too — I haven’t been yet. Hopefully soon the Caribbean will be possible.

What advice would you give your younger, greener self starting out?

Sleep as much as you can! Talk and communicate with your fellow workers. Don’t take things personally and smile. Life is beautiful — and so is yachting.

Five years from now — where are you?

A famous master chef on the top yachts or running my own Michelin-star restaurant. My dream is Miami for some reason — but that could change.

When you’re off-duty, how do you spend your downtime?

Sleeping — I love my sleep! I also really enjoy cooking for the family, going to the gym to stay active and destress, or travelling with my mum and younger brother. Family is everything.

Editor’s Note

Lauren’s story is a reminder that breaking into yachting isn’t always glamorous — but with resilience, humour, and the right mentors, young crew like her are shaping the industry’s next generation of talent.

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.