The Great Mediterranean Circus of Yachting
By Chef Luis Rafael Hurtado. #25/1086.
Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages, welcome to the Mediterranean — the greatest circus afloat.
Not the Cirque du Soleil, mind you, but a clown show where the ringmasters are captains with PTSD, the brokers are snake-oil salesmen, and the audience is an owner who thought buying a 50-meter yacht was the same as adding a pool to the backyard.
Let’s start with the brokers, shall we? These magicians in polo shirts and fake tans sell yachts like used cars, conveniently forgetting to mention that owning a yacht is not like buying a condo in Monaco.
Surprise. It’s a floating business — with engines, hydraulics, and twenty exhausted humans that require food, sleep, and a salary that doesn’t resemble an insult. But no, they whisper sweet nothings to the owner:
“You’ll host glamorous parties, eat Michelin-star dinners, and sail into sunsets.”
They forget to add:
“…on the back of an unpaid, underfed, underslept crew who will eventually plot your murder with a butter knife.”
Then come the owners. Some lovely. Some absolutely clueless.
Owning a yacht does not mean you know how to run one.
You wouldn’t buy a hospital and then try to perform open-heart surgery, but somehow, you think running a vessel with international regulations, visas, and safety codes is easier than programming a microwave.
And when things go wrong (and they always do), the first people blamed are not the brokers who lied, but the poor crew trying to MacGyver miracles out of duct tape, prayer, and broken promises.
Crew rest? Please.
Rest is treated like a mythical creature — something you read about in books but never see in real life.
God forbid a crew member takes a nap.
The owner might think they’re lazy, when in reality, they’ve been awake for twenty hours making your foie gras foam while also unclogging your toilet.
Now let’s talk salaries and day rates.
Somewhere along the line, the industry decided to normalize peasant wages for highly skilled professionals.
Chefs are expected to plate like Alain Ducasse on a Taco Bell budget.
Engineers are supposed to rebuild engines overnight with chewing gum and zip ties.
Stews have to smile through abuse while folding your underwear into origami swans.
And the cherry on top? Exposure.
Exposure doesn’t pay rent, Karen.
So yes, the Med has become the ultimate floating disaster.
Harassment, burnout, contracts treated like confetti, crew stranded in random ports with no pay, captains imploding, owners exploding.
The whole circus is alive and well.
But here’s the plot twist: it doesn’t have to be this way.
This industry can be extraordinary when people respect it.
When brokers tell owners the truth.
When owners understand that running a yacht is not a hobby, but a responsibility.
When management companies prioritize human beings over invoices.
When crew are given rest, proper food, and the dignity they deserve.
Because beneath the sarcasm, there’s still love for the sea, for the adventure, for the camaraderie that keeps us here despite the madness.
If we start holding people accountable, demanding better standards, and treating each other like professionals — not circus clowns — then maybe, just maybe, we’ll stop juggling chaos and start sailing into the future we all deserve.
Until then, keep your helmets, life jackets, and sense of humor close at hand.