The Chief Stew Chronicles
The Chief Stew Chronicles: Tales from the Espresso-Fueled Twilight Zone by Luis Rafael Hurtado. #25/1018.
Once upon a time—because every nightmare deserves a fairy tale intro—I found myself trapped aboard a floating asylum disguised as a yacht. And at the helm of chaos, ruling the roost with a steely blow-dried grip and a latte in hand, was our beloved Chief Stewardess: a walking, talking cautionary tale in yacht whites.
Now, don’t get me wrong—on paper, she was a “great stew.” Five-star service, polished cutlery, candles lit with military precision. But behind the scenes? Oh darling, she made a root canal look like a spa day.
This woman did not speak—she narrated her entire stream of consciousness aloud, like an audiobook nobody asked for. She had conversations with herself, with the vacuum, with the spoon drawer, and occasionally, she even included us lowly crew mortals—though she’d interrupt us before we could respond. Asking a question, then cutting me off halfway through my answer? Iconic.
Fueled by six shots of espresso and unresolved childhood trauma, she zipped around the boat micromanaging like it was an Olympic sport. If dinner was scheduled for 8pm, she’d be in my galley at 6:43pm, sweating bullets over a napkin fold, while I’m elbow-deep in mise en place.
“Do you need help?”
No. I need space. And maybe divine intervention.
Forget chilling—she had no off switch. She’d wake up from a nap she somehow had time for (unlike the rest of us) and immediately jump back into talking about dinner service seven hours away. Meanwhile, I’m still trying to get through breakfast without burning the eggs or my will to live.
But the pièce de résistance? The after-hours “team bonding” events. You know, the ones she orchestrated like a cruise director on meth. She’d gather the crew, pour the rosé, and proceed to get delightfully smashed while drama unfolded faster than a Real Housewives reunion.
Nothing says relaxation like watching your Chief Stew weep over her third vodka soda and accuse the deckhand of stealing her soul.
And let’s not forget her poor Second Stew, who followed her around like a baby duck imprinting on a hair-straightened hurricane. You could see the life force slowly drain from that girl’s eyes by Day 3.
The Captain? Oh, he was fully aware. He even joked—half-serious, half-desperate—that life would be better if we were all male crew. (Same energy as “Men’s Mental Health Month,” but with less emotional intelligence.)
Look, it wasn’t just that she was annoying. It was that she made what could’ve been a straightforward, professional, and even enjoyable job feel like psychological warfare. Working alongside her didn’t feel like teamwork—it felt like surviving a hostage situation with high-thread-count sheets.
Compassionate Coda
In her defense—and yes, there’s always a dark little asterisk to these stories—she was a survivor of something far bigger than this industry. Years of alcoholism and drug addiction had rewired her emotional landscape, replacing calm with control and connection with chaos. Stability didn’t come easy to her; she compensated with over-functioning and manic leadership, probably afraid that if she let go for even one second, everything would collapse—including herself.
So I see her. Behind the mascara, behind the monologue, behind the micromanaging—there was a wounded woman doing her best not to drown in her own unfinished healing.
But Lord help us all…
she made sure we all got a taste of the whirlpool.