Back in the Med!

Hello!!! So it’s been 6 months since my last blog (oops!). But that’s pretty much how busy the season has been. I vow to writte more often (and much shorter posts!) from now on. After a crazy few months in the Caribbean (which I will come back to) we set sail towards Europe in April:

Atlantic crossing number 3

It got off to a bumpy start and then got better and I managed to get in quite a few gymming and tanning days. But after about day 9- of the same motion, the same people (who seemed to get more and more annoying each day), the same view (nothing) and the same routine of “eat, work, sleep, repeat” I was really starting to get the blues. It got to the stage where life felt so depressing, I was seriously contemplating “accidently” setting off the fire alarm once again, grabbing a SART (search and rescue transponder), shoving all my crew out of the way and leaping SART first into a life raft on my own, to pray for immediate recue and extrication from the sea by helicopter. Yes, I was land sick.

I was due to take my one month’s leave as soon as we reached our destination- Spain; but after the physically and emotionally draining season we’d had, I actually couldn’t wait another minute, or I might have seriously, actually strangled one of my crew. After coming up with a teensy weensy white lie about having to fly home sooner than expected due to flight disasters, I booked a flight straight out of Gibraltar. I was clothed and suitcase ready on the main deck aft as we pulled into the re fuelling dock and didn’t even wait for the passerail (gangway) to fully extend to land, before I bounded off and hugged the nearest non-moving object id seen in 13 days (which happened to be a pole). After what seemed like an endless taxi ride and a gin and tonic infueled plane ride, I touched down in the glorious motherland for a month of peace (well, excluding AfrikaBurn of course, which I wouldn’t exactly describe as peaceful. More like a mind blowing, magical adventure).

Sadly my holiday went by far too quickly and I found it really hard to leave this time. I miss being on my own time, not being governed by what time I have to eat and where I can go when. I miss freedom and independence. I feel like a worker bee in a hive. Constantly busy, working towards the greater good of the commune! You don’t get an opinion. You just do as you’re told. Hardest thing I’m still learning- “to be seen and not heard”. For someone who always has an opinion about EVERYTHING, I am definitely in the wrong industry. The thing I am told most by my (mostly male and senior) colleagues is

Colleague: “Tiffany! This is not a discussion!”

Me: “But I just think that…” (cut off mid sentence byJ

Colleague: “No! Don’t think, just do as you’re told”

Me: “But I….” (cut off again)

Colleague: “Tiffany this conversation is over”

 

Back on the boat: First charter of Med Season

Wow. What a start to the season. So by day 6, we’d had a guest take a dump in a bathtub (yes. Literally), another wet the bed, a cappuccino go flying onto the cream carpet, children climbing all over glass coffee tables and a crazy guest walking around in a dressing gown all day with electrified hair, goggly glasses and big DJ earphones hanging out her pocket. The guests consisted of a royal family of mum and dad and two very young, undisciplined children who each came with their own nanny, a PA, a personal trainer and 2 friends.

So our one guest was a little odd. A nice person, just a bit odd. “Away with the fairies”” one would say. She spent most days walking around in a dressing gown with big, dj type earphones and was always coming into the crew areas unannounced to see what we were up to. She’d wander through into the pantries and the galley and was often in the bridge, just to “say hello” and see what we were up to “behind the scenes”. Even though “behind the scenes” can often be slightly chaotic and a bit untidy in the pantries during busy service hours. This usually wouldn’t be a big problem, but we got the feeling sometimes that she was spying.  Poking her nose in every cupboard, reading our notes and quizzing our chef. She proceeded to pop in un announced a few times a day, and I was once caught, red handed, scoffing down a custard bun (leftover from guest breakfast) which she seemed horrified at. “Is that from our BREAKFAST?” she asked. “Ah you know, no point in leftovers going to waste”. I tried a small, fake laugh, but just ended up spluttering crumbs everywhere. Oops.

It was in this guest’s bathroom, that my friend Ash was unfortunate enough to find the present that one of the room inhabitants had left behind in the bath after a shower. The radio conversation went something like this:

Ash: “Interior, interior, Ash”

Chief Stew: “Go ahead Ash”

Ash: “We’ve got a bit of a shitty situation here in the Port Forward guest cabin”

Chief Stew: “Well what it is?”

Ash: “I think you need to come and take a look”

Chief Stew goes down to the cabin and there in the bathtub, stuck around the plughole, where someone had obviously tried to ram it down the drain, was a chocolaty treat, left behind for the girls to clean up. Our chief stew, being the legend she is, said we aren’t paid enough to have to deal with shit like that (no pun intended) and proceeded to clear up the mess. We still don’t know the reason behind this small gift, but our bets are on our slightly batty guest who might have mistaken the bathtub for a giant bday.

Our principal guest, His Highness, was absolutely lovely. Appreciating every small thing we did, that was standard for that level of service. Always thanking us and telling us not to make a fuss. For a royal family, they were very polite and undemanding (bar the hyperactive, glass-coffee table climbing, pear eating and smearing on sofas, screaming if they didn’t get their own way, grubby handprints everywhere, children) and ate dinner off the boat every evening, which was a bonus for us. They did however, stay up all night and only went to bed at 6am. Luckily for me I wasn’t on late shift this trip!

Even though he was married with kids though, I was adamant that he batted for the other side. The way he spoke and his amazing style, how polite and caring and down to earth he was, but mostly the way he spoke and his little mannerisms. This hypothesis was answered in my mind, when he called me in on his last day to help choose his leaving outfit for the following day. He had a pair of dark green shorts lying on the bed, with about 8 shirts surrounding it, one of which was checked purple and about 3 in different shades of green. We had a discussion about each option:

HRH: “Yes can you help me please, I’m not sure what to do”

Me: “Yes of course, your highness, what can I assist you with?” (Assuming it was to do with packing his suitcase, bringing him a drink or helping him work the AV system).

HRH: “I don’t know what to wear tomorrow”. He said, staring at the array of clothing laid out on the master bed, right forefinger pressed to his lip with a furrowed brow, looking concerned

“I like this green one” he said, waving his arm at a pale, lime green shirt.

“But I think if I wear green and green, I’ll look too much like a tree”. He said, turning to me for my opinion.

Me (looking pensive): “Yes maybe a bit your highness.  What about this lovely purple checked one? Purple is the colour of royalty is it not?”

We finally narrowed it down to 3, where he asked me to choose the one I liked best and this was the one he wore when we waved good bye and saw them off on the tender. So I can now say that I helped dress a prince!

The Leprechaun

 So sadly we’ve had some crew leave and some new crew arrive. One of which is a stew masseuse who I affectionately call “the leprechaun” as she is Irish. Short, with shoulder length red hair and big blue eyes, she was to become my newest partner in crime. We share a great sense of humor and are both either always talking too much, or on facebook too much or giggling too much in the pantries “Shhhhhhhh! The guests can hear you, you know!”. She has brought endless laughter to my days as we always have a bit of banter- especially when we’re doing one of the not so glamorous stew jobs.

My leprechaun friend was the laundry girl during our first charter and the aircon had decided to shit the nest. It was so hot, it was at least 32 degrees inside, unless you managed to wedge the door open with a shoe. Each time I opened the door to drop something off and asked how things were going, she would reply, dripping from head to toe with sweat in the 40 degree sauna, “Ah, you know, living the dream! Absolutely living the dream, I mean when I was kid and I saw my life in 10 years’ time, this is exactly how I saw myself- sweating in a laundry and cleaning other people’s dirty underwear. Literally living the dream!”

“Yes”, I replied. “We are living the dream. I’ve just spent the last 15mins using a toothbrush to try and get some cemented poo off one of the guest toilet bowls. Our friends at home would be jealous! Better not tell them or they’ll all be wanting a job as a stew! “And then we’d keel over laughing. And this would become our motto from then on. Every time one of us is given a not so pleasant task, we just tell each other it’s all part of living the dream.

This saying came about because in yachting, your non yachtie friends back home only ever see your “day off” photos on Facebook- sightseeing in foreign cities, lying on Caribbean beaches sipping on cocktails, meeting famous celebrities. And all we hear if we sometimes vent about the long hours, exhausting work or difficult guests is “Oh but you’re living the dream! You get to cruise around on a beautiful yacht and go to all these amazing places, AND you’re getting paid for it!” But my favourite comment is “You must have the BEST tan!”. Uhhhhh when? Do you think I get to leave the interior of the boat at ALL during a busy charter? I say Nay…

Everyone forgets that your AWESOME photos depict your ONE day off that only happens every 6 weeks or so. No one posts photos of their day to day yacht life- scrubbing toilets bowls, siphoning poo out of bathplugs, cleaning wee out of a wardrobe which a drunk guest has mistaken for the bathroom, fishing clotted, rotting hairballs out of shower drains, re making beds and re wiping down showers 2-3 times a day. But still, the days off really do make up for it.

In the last 2 weeks I have seen the Acropolis and walked the evening streets of Mykonos and Naxos with their intertwining, cobbled, pedestrian-only streets; eating frozen yoghurt from one of the many little shops that are dotted inbetween the quaint candle lit restaurants playing soft, but lively Greek music. I have spent a night out in crazy Bodrum (Turkey), drinking Raki and bar hopping the packed streets. Restaurants and bars all spill out onto the tight network of pedestrian streets and plazas and it’s just a buzz of loud, rowdy people with the sound of laughter and the smell of barbequed kebabs in the air. I have spent a day on a gorgeous Turkish beach, drinking cocktails, swimming and getting a reflexology foot massage, a day (today actually) at a similar, beautiful Greek beach bar in Athens, drinking my cocktail in the water, whilst sitting on the shallow sea bed and then getting a 45min Ayurveda and Indian head massage on a little stand literally a meter from the water. After a relaxing day like that with a good vitamin D injection, I feel fully refreshed and ready to graft hard this week before our next charter starts J