A superyacht education

 Before I began working on luxury motor yachts in the summer of 2001, I could scarcely imagine that I would soon look after English lords and Mafia, be subservient to a prostitute, nor call a 30 million dollar boat my home.  Evian baths were as yet unheard of, as were death-hits, physical abuse and bullet-proof cars.  I was unaware, then, that pirates still existed, and the concept of my death was a distant, distant thing.  I understood neither that the rich could behave so badly, nor that their privileged lives could be so damned sad. I was blissfully ignorant that my principles could be bought so cheaply, and hypocrisy was still something that only other people practiced.  Being a yacht stewardess changed all that.  

Welcome to the Saint Tropez superyacht caravan park- where everyone is nuts

Imagine a world where servants enter their boss’ presence via hidden doorways disguised as bookshelves, the ‘Madame’ bathes in Evian, and supermodel guests refuse to flush their own toilets.  Where replacement puppies are ordered for the duration of a holiday, and Lear jets are sent across the globe to pick up a single Wagu steak (£200) for the dog’s dinner.  Accompanied by a bowl of chilled Evian, bien sur.

Welcome to the Saint Tropez caravan park for super-yachts, where everyone is nuts.  A super-yacht is any privately-owned pleasure yacht over 80 feet in length, although an 80-foot yacht is a minnow now in an industry where oligarchs, tycoons and royalty wage endless status-wars to build the largest mega-yachts.    The biggest now  (Eclipse, owned by Roman Abramovich) surpasses 535 feet and comes equipped with cinema, anti-missile shield and a submarine.  Some might call that overkill.  

These super-yachts, with helipads and Jacuzzis and cabins of marble and gold, cluster at anchor off Saint Tropez and Saint Barths or squish together in the ports of Portofino and Porto Cervo, close enough that they can hear each other’s music and watch each other’s procession of guests- the movie stars and models, mafia and oil barons, the bankers, inventors and diamond-mine owners.  Add mistresses, prostitutes, bodyguards and nannies, and here you have the world’s strangest caravan park, where the richest families on earth return each year, en masse, to mingle with their kind. 

Some years ago, I moved to the South of France to find a job as a super-yacht stewardess, which, sadly, doesn’t require a cape as the title might suggest. (A lobotomy might prove useful though.) I hadn’t realised that I was about to become a domestic servant in a floating Downton Abbey, albeit one where my employers would sometimes more resemble Vlad the Impaler than the benevolent Lord Grantham.  I had doubts as to whether I was psychologically suited to being ‘the help’.  As it turned out, these were excellent, well-founded doubts. 

My first day on a 30 million dollar yacht was illuminating.  I was instructed by the chief stewardess that ‘Madame’, (the yacht owner’s wife) would only bathe in Evian water, and that we were to send her dry-cleaning to Paris on a Lear-jet.  I was prohibited from using the same doorway as her, and was told to enter and exit her cabin via the emergency escape hatch.  The captain also warned me against ‘speaking to the guests without being spoken to first’.  He clearly didn’t realise that telling an Australian to ‘know her place’ is an exercise in futility. 

Three weeks later, I quit the yacht after ‘Madame’ split her Filipino servant’s nose with a flying stiletto after discovering one of her evening gowns had slipped off its hanger at sea. She screamed at the young woman that she would throw her passport overboard and that she would never see her family again.  When I suggested (quite strongly) that the girl should quit, she told me that she couldn't quit, as Madame had flown to the Philippines and bought her from her family with a suitcase full of money.   If I was the 21^st century servant, this girl was the 21^st century slave.  My super-yacht education had begun with a bang.  Like all worthwhile education, it involved scandal and danger, and would change the way I saw the world. 

Not all super-yacht owners are bonkers, of course.  Some are polite, spend their time playing Scrabble, and barely ever throw things.  Amusingly for people swanning about in a giant white yacht, some even try to travel incognito and wear scruffy old clothes.   I won’t be writing much about them.  Dull, you see.  Violent megalomaniacs are just that bit more interesting.  Especially the billionaires that used to live behind a certain heavyweight curtain. I’m not sure if they think that Lenin might jump out from behind the jetskis, confiscate their American blue jeans and make them start queuing for bread again, but that lot sure know how to misbehave. 

Welcome to the secret life of super-yachts.  Wildly ostentatious, utterly conceited...and hugely entertaining.

Part One- Jackie O' and the Bahamian Bordello, Florida

Question on US immigration form:  “Are you intending to try to overthrow the government of the United States?” 

Gilbert Harding: “Sole purpose of visit.”

They don’t just let anyone into the United States of America you know. There are requirements, specifically a return ticket back to where you came from, at least $3000 dollars in a bank account, and the understanding that you won’t look for work while in the States.  I’m distinctly aware of my failure on all three counts, and as I am driven towards Montreal airport I become increasingly nervous about getting through US immigration.  My nerves aren't much helped by a carload of people from the hostel I’d been living in tutoring me on how to escape detection if I am pulled aside for questioning. 

“Don’t look left, it is a sure sign you’re lying.”

"Don’t fidget, or cross and uncross your legs."

“Don't look nervous.”

It seems that they not only have some experience in these matters, but that they are enjoying themselves a little more than I think necessary.   My hangover grows exponentially as office buildings flicker past the window and the airport draws into sight.   I want the drive to last forever, and remaining in Canada seems like an increasingly attractive option. 

30 minutes later, my worst fears are realised as I find myself ushered into an interview room, where American immigration officers look suspiciously at my fictitious typed itinerary and listen with blank expressions as I try to explain why I am not carrying proof of my finances or a return ticket to Australia.  I suspect that 'I have no money and don't want to go back to Australia yet' is not the answer the gatekeepers of Fortress America are looking for, so I keep it to myself. While I answer their questions I busy myself looking left, fidget like a junkie, and shift nervously in my seat as if being attacked by fire ants.   I am sweating last night's booze by this point, which I’m fairly sure isn’t helping my credibility. I stare at the clock in the long intervals I am left alone, aware of both my imminent flight departure and the surveillance camera trained on me as I compulsively cross and uncross my legs. 

As I wait I ponder (as much as a wine-soaked brain can ponder) the irony of being denied entry to a country I have no overwhelming desire to visit, let alone live in.  I would really, really like to point that out, but think it might be counterproductive.  Finally, as the hour passes and I reconcile myself to missing my flight and having my entry rejected, they send in a very large lady with a very large gun. She lowers herself bulkily into her swivel chair, which sinks towards the floor with a mechanical sigh. 

She shuffles and breathes heavily through her mouth as she looks through the papers on her desk.
 “Where is your return ticket?  Where is your proof of finances?  What are your plans in the United States?”  And then we go through it all again.  I’m not a very proficient liar, and I feel dizzy and very much like throwing up.  Finally, when I am entirely sure she will refuse my visa, she stands behind me, leans over my shoulder and says, “You are going to Fort Lauderdale to look for work, aren’t you?  Boat work," she adds. This is not really a question, more of a statement. 

“No,” I say, absolutely not. Just a holiday."

She stares at me for what seems like an eternity, flicks through my passport one more time, and stamps it.   “You’d better not be," she warns, handing me my passport, “go catch your plane." And I run for the plane bound for Florida, a place I don't want to go, and for a job I don't want. 

I am hoping to find a boat that is heading to the Caribbean for the winter season.  This job search in itself is illegal, as looking for any work in America on a tourist visa is illegal.  However, thousands of foreign yacht crew do this every year, and apply for their US visas once they find a job on a foreign-flagged vessel. At which point you are no longer working in America, but on a floating bit of some tax-free haven, most often the Cayman Islands.  And, therefore, no longer doing anything illegal.  I don’t think.  It’s complicated.  But I am on my way there, nonetheless, and as I am welcomed into America by a customs official who hands me a handful of chocolate-covered cranberries and cheerily tells me to  'Have a great time in the USA, the best country on earth,' I think that this could be a most excellent adventure.  

 I walk out of the big glass airport doors into a wall of rain and tropical heat, and take a taxi to a cheap motel. I feel as if I have squeezed inside my TV set, as we zip past strip malls (which to my surprise, don’t have strip clubs in them!) and the endless chain stores and restaurants on route 95.  Pick-up trucks are everywhere,‘gas’ is cheap, there are no footpaths, and the people I can see are all either blonde and perfect or overweight and wearing a tracksuit. It is exactly how I’d imagined Florida to be, and I am pretty damn thrilled.

I check in at my motel, a white two-storey place with a communal balcony built over the car park, just like in the movies.  This pleases me some more.  The room has that smell of cheap motels everywhere, a mix of astringent cleaning products and stuffy air-conditioning, and I am delighted to see that the toilet has been ‘sealed for my protection’ with a paper strip.  I wonder what exactly it is I am being protected from.   What is in there?  I grin to myself as I snap the paper with a flourish and imagine a clown bursting out, or the singing dancing creature in a hat and cane that emerges from the man's stomach at the end of Spaceballs.  I look around at my room, wondering which of the giant beds I will sleep in.  I decide to spend some time in both.  I lie down and watch telly for a while, flicking channels, skipping past evangelical preachers and countless infomercials, finally settling on one of the myriad versions of CSI, where I watch a lady in high heels and waist-length blonde hair conduct an experiment and think for the hundredth time, her hair must surely get in the evidence.  Hungry, I decide to go for a walk to find a restaurant.

“Oh, you can’t walk!" The motel receptionist laughs at me when I tell her my plans are for the evening. “Why are the Australians always trying to walk everywhere?” she yells to her husband in the back room, and he laughs back.

“Just throw another shrimp on the barbie," he yells back, and we all laugh some more, while I think, It’s not a shrimp, we don’t call it a shrimp, we call it a prawn you idiots.  I cut them off before they start talking about the Crocodile Hunter, who I’ve quickly realised Americans just love, and apparently I ‘sound just like’.  Good lord, I do not.  They explain that there’s no footpath to walk on, and it’s dangerous with all that traffic.  Of course, I think, no footpaths.  They kindly offer to drop me off at a Tex-Mex restaurant nearby.  And so I eat nachos in a restaurant festooned with fake cacti and number plates from all fifty States. I wonder how long it has taken them to collect them.  I ask the middle-aged bartender, he smiles at my naiveté.

 “Oh, we order them from the factory, everybody does.   American memorabilia is quite the industry.” 

The next day I wake up and check out, throw in a couple of ‘crikey's on my way out of reception for good measure, and catch a taxi to Floyd’s Crew House, where I’ve heard captains come to when they are looking for crew. I tell the guy at the desk that I’m looking for stew jobs, and go to my dorm; the room smells, as they always do.  It is empty, a few people are gathered on the communal tables under the trees outside, but I don’t feel like joining them.  I sit on my bunk and look at my backpack, wondering which interview clothes I will wear to go and see the crew agents, and mull over the fact that I do not have any suitable shoes.  This is not unusual.  I hate shoes. Having failed to come to a satisfactory footwear conclusion, I don’t really know what to do next, and lie down on my squeaky metal bunk. All of a sudden a corpulent, white-haired man sweeps in wearing a white polo shirt with a yacht on it.  I sit up.  His face is very red and he looks exceedingly stressed.  This is quite clearly a captain!

"I hear you’re looking for stew work," he says, voice gruff and very Texan.

"Yes."

"Worked on yachts before?” he asks? I see he's holding my resume in his hand.

“For a few seasons. 50 metre mostly. Motor. It's all there in my resume." He glances down at it, but doesn't seem that interested.   I neglect to mention that I lasted 3 weeks on the first, 3 months on the second before getting fired for sleeping with a crew member, and six months on the third, only lasting so long because they took my passport away and wouldn’t give it back unless I paid them thousands of dollars.  Unnecessary detail, I thought, and he looks like a man with little time.  He is looking at his watch.

“Good.  You look alright.  Come on.”

"I’m sorry?”

“You’ve got a job. Now, wasn’t that easy- you haven’t even unpacked yet."

I look at my backpack on the floor and back at him.  This is unconventional, as he still hasn't read my resume, let alone checked references. I make a decision. Why not?  I can always say no once I get to the boat if it doesn’t suit, after a few days' work. Beggars, choosers and all that.   And it saves me having to buy shoes. 

So I climb into a big black air-conditioned pick-up truck with dark tinted windows, trying not to focus on the fact that I am getting into a complete stranger’s car and no one in the whole world knows where I am.  It occurs to me that my family don’t even know that I’ve moved to America. His name is Greg, but asks that I call him ‘Captain’.  I think this is idiotic, but promise myself that I’ll try.  I ask some general questions about the boat.

“How big is it, sail or motor, charter or private?”

 He tells me that it is a 40 metre motoryacht, private and charter, but there he stops. He seems a little cagey about the details, and prefers to talk about how lucky I am to get a job so quickly, and how much Americans like Australia.  (Without ever going there, the flight’s too long, but still. Practically the same country, really.)  He talks for a while about the general unfairness of the world’s disdain for America, and how Bush is ‘setting that right, showing them who is boss.’

"He's a great man, Bush.  I got tackled by secret service for trying to give him a hug once.  On a golf course. Great man.  The world owes him a lot.  And America." I feel we are heading inexorably towards a ‘Y’all’d be speaking  German or Japanese if it weren’t for us’ moment, and steer the conversation back to the job I’ve just been offered.

“Is there a boss-trip coming up?"

“Yes, next Friday, we’ve got sea trials next week. We've done a lot of work on her."

“Been in the shipyard then?”

"Yeah, we bought the boat and raised it."

"Raised it?” I ask curiously. This doesn’t sound good.  

“Yeah, it caught fire in the canal here in Fort Lauderdale when it was moored behind someone’s house, and it sunk.  Shallow water though, so me and the owner bought it and raised it. I own 10%.” 

Oh no, I think, alarm bells screaming. This is weird. I have never heard of a captain having shares in a yacht before, normally the owners are richer than God and have no need for shared ownership. 

“The owner’s a friend of mine," he says, seeing my uncertain look.   “Sure, it’s a bit unusual, but it’s going to be great, lots of tips for you, we’re all going to make a fortune."

Daywork for a week and get out of here, I tell myself. 

"But Dana will answer all your questions, about how it’s going to work".

“Dana?” I ask.

"Yes, the chef, she's great.  We're going to meet her now, she’s at the deli picking up lunch- they’ve got the most amazing sandwiches- you should try their pastrami."

We pull up at the deli and my eyes are magnetically drawn to the counter, where the epitome of a Floridian stripper is ordering lunch. She is a stunningly beautiful blonde in her 30's, and shares a good relationship with a plastic surgeon.  She is perfect for my Florida-girl stereotype.  Enormous boobs jut out at right angles in a super-fitting white top, bleached blonde hair falls down to her waist.  Sculptured nose, rigid eyelids and collagen lips turn towards us as she yells,

“Greg! And oh my god, you’ve found someone- she’s perfect!” This, to my rapidly accumulating dismay, is directed at me. Everyone in the shop turns and looks as kilos of silicone envelop me in a hug.  I half-expect her to smell of Tupperware, but she smells of Chanel and strong shampoo.

"This is the chef, this is Dana, isn’t she wonderful?” the captain says, giving her shoulders a proprietary squeeze.  She simpers at him, looking up from under long eyelashes.  The men in the shop, everyone in the shop, just keep looking at her.  I can’t take my eyes off her either. This girl has serious star-power, somehow elevated rather than diminished by the fact that she looks like a caricature of herself.  She pulls me over to the cabinet, where the middle-aged lady behind the till looks at Dana with affection; obviously everyone knows her here, and no-one seems to mind at all that she is holding up the queue with her amateur dramatics.  I order a salad, and we go outside to the carpark, where Dana climbs into an open-top white convertible.
"See you back at the boat!" she shouts out, and speeds away. 

The captain’s cell phone rings while we’re driving to the shipyard.  He answers it, waits a millisecond, and starts shouting. He waves his other arm around as he rants about deadlines, and I notice his face is getting a tinge of purple within the red.  He looks on the verge of a heart attack. I look uncomfortably down at the salad container in my lap, noticing the funny artificial colour of American cheese.  I am relieved when we pull into the shipyard in front of a 40-metre motoryacht, for while it has only 2 decks it looks ‘official’ enough, and close enough to what I’ve worked on before to feel a little more on familiar ground.  Or teak, as it were. We walk onto the aft deck, there are tools lying about everywhere and everything is an incredible mess.   I wonder how this boat can possibly be made ready for the owner’s trip in nine days time.  Entering the main salon, my eyes are drawn to the ‘Miami Vice’ style carpet, with giant green, purple and black diamonds stretching across cream pile. It is vile, and my distaste must have registered on my face.

"OK, we’ll change it, you have lots of experience, on bigger boats, you can decide the new carpet!”  He goes back to yelling on the phone, and goes back outside, pacing on the aft deck.   I jump to see a man in blue overalls is lying quietly on the carpet near me, attaching a speaker to a stereo. I introduce myself, he looks at me, seemingly not knowing what to say.

“Putting a new speaker in," he finally says quietly, although that bit I had already figured out.   "The captain slashed the last one with his Leatherman.  His knife," he adds, misinterpreting my look of incomprehension.

Why”? I venture, unsure if I want to know the answer.

"He hates the radio station the old first mate listened to, so he slashed the speaker and fired him.  The mate knew, he’d been warned before, he was just doing it to rile the captain up."

“He fired him? For listening to a radio station”?  I look out to where the captain is still yelling into his mobile on the aft deck, his voice audible through the thick glass sliding door, and decide that this is believable.   And then, as I watch, as if on marvellous cue, the captain takes off his sunglasses, throws them on the deck, and jumps on them, his face a picture of purple, apoplectic rage.  “He’s jumping on his sunglasses!" I say, aghast.

"Oh, he does that all the time, he get a new pair of Maui Jims every month." The engineer seems strangely unperturbed. He smiles, seeing my face, and introduces himself as Simon. “You’ll get used to him.  Don’t worry.”  He stands up, shakes my hand awkwardly, and walks out.  

 “Good engineer, given his background," says a voice behind me.  I turn around to see another man in overalls behind me, he introduces himself as Graham.  He is here to help with the shipyard work. 

Oh”, I ask curiously.  “What’s his background?” 

“Amish”, comes the reply.  I look at him, amazed.  An Amish engineer?  “Well he ran away from the Amish family, got sick of the horse and carriage life and came to work with engines instead. Not that great with people though, especially women.  He’s pretty quiet.”  I am thrilled with this bit of information, the wonderful American wackiness of it.

Dana arrives back at the boat, and after a quick lunch she shows me the cabin we'll be sharing. “You’ll only have to share it with me when we’re away on trips though, I have an apartment here in Lauderdale.” This is excellent news, having a single-share cabin is like a stewardess’ Holy Grail.  I look in the bathroom, it is very bright. I see there is a ladder fixed to the wall behind the toilet, leading up to the deck via a hard plastic hatch that lets the daylight flood in.  I like it; I’ve never had an escape hatch in my bathroom before.  I turn back to say something to Dana, only to realise she has curled up on the bottom bunk and fallen asleep, looking strangely child-like.  I say, hesitantly, then more loudly,

“Dana, what am I meant to be doing? Where shall I start? Greg said you’d know where everything was up to.”

She groans. "You can do the washing, I haven’t done any for days", waving her arm languidly at an enormous pile of laundry on the cabin floor.  “Oh, and be careful with my hand washing.I have lots of expensive stuff. "  Hmmmmm, I think, but try and quash the bubbles of doubt that are rising in my chest.  I put some washing on, and take a wander around the boat.

I quickly see that this boat is far, far cheaper than anything I’ve worked on before.  The bathrooms have imitation silver and gold-plate fixtures and marble showers and counter-tops have been replaced by plastic and cheap laminate.  It is very dirty; a thick layer of dust lies on everything, and I am itching to get a bucket of soap and wash everything in sight.  I find the linen cupboard and rifle through it, the napkins are cheap and mismatched, I start writing a list of everything I will need to buy.   New tableware, uniforms, cleaning products, toiletries- and everything for the boss’ trip- alcohol, snacks, water. As I write my list, I realise that somewhere over the past three years, (and despite my best intentions) I have become a stewardess.  And this bit- the top-to-bottom cleaning and organising before a trip, shopping with a millionaire’s credit card for beautiful things- this bit I absolutely love about yachting.  

That night Dana and I go to the Quarterdeck, a yachtie bar in Fort Lauderdale.  I walk in the door with Dana, and there is a repeat of what happened in the deli.  Everyone in the room stops, and stares.  She is obviously known here, and men practically run over for the chance to buy her a drink. She performs her part well-incredibly well- flirting and laughing and touching the men on the shoulder, on the arm.  I am entirely invisible next to her, and she has to prompt the men to go back to the bar and bring me a drink too.  And they do!  Every inch the femme fatale, this is a most extraordinary performance. She is clearly using them for drinks and attention- she knows it, they know it, yet neither party seems to care.  It is like something out of a movie, and we are not left alone for a second all night as a steady stream of drinks arrives with each batch of admirers.  She feeds on the adoration, delighted and confident, although by the number of trips she takes to the bathroom, I am guessing the confidence is at least in part chemically-aided.  I ask how she ended up being the chef on board, and how long she’d been cooking.

“Oh, this is my first chef job, "she says brightly, looking at a guy across the room and waving.  "I met Greg a few months ago, at a BBQ, and he offered me the job.  I didn’t even have to show him my resume."

“Wow. How did he know you could cook?” 

"Oh, I was cooking the barbeque.” 

“Must have been a good barbeque, you must have made quite an impression."

“Oh, I did," she says, giggling like a little girl. “I was only wearing my g-string. Oh, I got paid for the work," she assures me, misconstruing my startled look. “And I used to be a stripper, so it didn’t bother me a bit.”   

At this last bit, I snort my drink out through my nose, my inner conservative spluttering. I fashion a big smile, pretending I’m not bothered by that at all.  What a strange crew this is, I think for about the four hundred and eighteenth time that day.  And, looking around at the ogling men, I realise this girl is famous in Fort Lauderdale for a reason. 

Over the next week, as I shop frantically and clean furiously and write ever more lists as we rush toward the deadline, I struggle with Dana’s quite extraordinary approach to work.  Disinclined to cook, we eat takeaway every day, and she seems to spend most days lying in her bunk sleeping, punctuated by spurts of manic activity and planning for the boss’s trip. I am still entirely unconvinced she knows anything about food. Our cabin is messy and piled with clothes; when I return her clean, ironed laundry, she just puts it on her bunk, then pushes it back onto the floor during her next nap, and then asks me to wash it again.  This is wearing thin, and her mood swings are catastrophic.  After a few days I realise she has a quite serious cocaine habit, as she wavers between insanely charismatic, pathologically needy and downright petulant.  Sharing male attention is not her speciality.  On Tuesday evening, we are gathered in the galley having an afternoon drink, discussing the seemingly endless list of things to still be done before the owner joins us on Friday.  Dana is bored and fidgeting.  She tries to interrupt, but I ignore her and keep talking.

“I’m worried my boobs aren’t as good as they were," she says loudly.  “I have to have sex.  I have to have it all the time.  What if guys don’t like me anymore?”  I stop and turn to look at her incredulously.  She pushes her chest out and turns from side to side, looking at herself in the window’s reflection.  I turn back to the guys, only to see they’ve gone a bit glassy-eyed and are staring at her like transfixed muppets. 

“You’re beautiful," the deckhand says, “You are never going to have to worry”. The older men look at her with a strange combination of pity, bemusement and attraction.  I look at them with irritation, for they know what she’s doing.  I, on the other hand, know when I am beaten.   I give up and go outside to sit on the dock, smoking and fuming. 

Our sea trials go surprisingly well in that at no point does the boat sink, catch fire, or crash into anything in the busy canal system.  I am reassured to see that the captain knows how to drive a boat with confidence, and that our Amish engineer seems to have a way with engines despite having spent the first 20 years of his life tinkering with horse-drawn buggies and communing with God through his cult-leader.  As for Dana and the growing mystery of whether she could actually cook, well, I’m still unsure, although the menus she has written for the upcoming trip sound good.  The interior of the yacht is ready too, or at least as ready as I think it can be without pulling it apart or spending a vast amount of money.  My budget has been heavily restricted, but I’ve managed to find nice-enough toiletries and linens, towels and bathrobes.  I look around, still feeling dissatisfied with the relatively cheap look of the cabins. After a moment’s hesitation, I fold the origami fan into the toilet paper.  I am vaguely disgusted with myself for the capitulation, but still feel oddly gratified when the captain comes down to check and says, with no hint of humour,

 “Oh, I like what you’ve done with the toilet paper- the things you learn on the big yachts, hey?” 
 The flowers arrive that evening, and we are ready.  I have decided to stay on for the trip, simply because it would be poor form to leave them without a stew at such short notice, and I had put in such effort and wanted to see how it turned out.

Part 2 Jackie O' and the Bahamian Bordello

The owner is due to arrive at midday, and I spend the morning doing one last dust and vacuum, setting up champagne in buckets and starching and folding linen napkins into fleur de lyses.  At 11.30 am I go to the main salon to do one last check, and stop suddenly at the sight of a half-naked blonde woman sitting on a bar stool, her upper half bare except for a giant red ribbon tied around her surgically-enhanced, astronomically large bosom.  She sees me staring.

 "Hi sweetie, I’m Tiffany.  The captain said I could just come on board. My bag is over there. Can you show me which cabin is mine?"  

My brain whirrs.  The captain hasn’t told me that we’re having extra guests, and had certainly failed to mention that one would be a prostitute.  Mind you, he had taken to calling me a prude when I’d said I didn’t want to go to a strip club for crew lunch, so perhaps he didn’t tell me to see how I would handle the situation.  I tell myself that it will not be a problem, I will not repeat the Singapore scenario where I was told by the captain that I would have to get used to being around prostitutes or get out of yachting. Older and wiser, I try to convince myself.  I hear Dana’s car pulls up.   Moments later, she comes on board and squeals,

"Oh hi Tiffany," and I see that I am the only person who's been kept in the dark on this one. I carry Tiffany’s suitcase down to her cabin, I can hear them upstairs giggling, and rustling through the grocery bags that Dana has brought in from the car.  The stripper and the prostitute.  It is going to be a long three days.  I leave the suitcase on the bed as that there is no way I’m unpacking a prostitute’s suitcase, no way.  Not only was I pretty sure I didn’t want to see what was in it, but I was feeling pretty unhappy that my job now extended to being subservient to a person who had sex for money.  As far as first day on the job experiences go, this one had me feeling pretty poorly about my situation in life.  A few years later, retelling the story in a Melbourne pub, a friend would point out that the prostitute probably felt a fair bit worse on her first day on the job, but I didn't see that at the time. I go back up to the galley, where I see the captain and Dana looking in the grocery bags, laughing at something.   I ask them what they are looking at. 

“Oh, no, you can’t look in here," says Greg.

“You will hate this," says Dana.

“Jackie O’ will definitely hate this," Greg agrees.

Jackie O?” I ask. 

"Yep, it’s what we call you. You think you’re a cut above the rest of us.  You’ll be rich one day though, I can tell it, just by looking at you.  Our own Jackie O.”   He looks back in the shopping bag.  “Nope.  Jackie O won’t like this at all."  They laugh at me some more, and I walk off, miffed. 

Ten minutes later, another car pulls up, and I go out to the aft deck to greet the guests, standing next to Tiffany, who is getting stares from the men in the shipyard as she stands there smiling with the giant red bow on her naked chest.  Two men in their seventies climb slowly from the car, one is straight and tall with silver hair, the other short and bowed over with arthritis, with a black patch over his eye. 

“Which one is Mr M?” I ask Dana. 

"The one on the right," she says.  “The little one.  It’s perfect that he’s got a patch because his family were Bermudian pirates.” 

"Pirates?” Of the Caribbean?  

“His house in Bermuda still has dungeons for the treasure," says Greg. I shoot him a look, trying to gauge if he is serious. 

“It’s true,” says Simon. “His family really were pirates."

 “But why does he only have one eye?” I ask a bit frantically.  No-one answers, the old men are now negotiating the passerelle. They look very unsteady on their feet and my brain hums with the oddity of watching a one-eyed pirate walk up a gangplank to be greeted by a stripper, a half-naked prostitute, an Amish escape, a purple-faced captain and an Australian girl who has no idea what she is doing in this story. 

Mr M. finally reaches us, the deckhand following with his bags.  Tiffany goes over and hugs and kisses the old men, I am keenly aware that by now the whole shipyard is watching this charade.  I want very badly to run away.  Mr M. grabs my hand in his arthritic, clawed grip, and pulls my face down close to his to kiss my cheek.  I try not to recoil, disengage myself politely and smile and offer them a drink.  I tell myself that it is only a three day trip, and that anything is bearable for three days.  I fix them G&T’s and snacks, leaving them to canoodle with Tiffany, who sits crossing and uncrossing her legs on a bar stool wearing only a tiny denim skirt. 

We leave the dock soon after, the boat chugging slowly through the canal past the columned mansions with private yachts tied up behind palm trees, and turn towards the Florida Keys.  We tie up that night behind a private island and I set up for dinner while the guests shower, laying the table for three with candles and flowers among the sparkling wine glasses. I go into the galley, where I am treated to the sight of Dana actually cooking, and cooking very well as far as I can tell.  I ask what is for dessert, as I’ve only been given the menu for entree and main, and I need to set the cutlery. 

“Oh, don’t worry about that, I’ll tell you what to do after the main course”, she tells me, tossing a colourful salad and putting a crusted whole fish into the oven to bake.

 “Fine”, I say.  I think it’s a bit weird she won’t tell me but suspect that she’s not quite ready on the dessert front yet.  I serve the scallops to start while the guests talk between themselves, Tiffany tries to pitch in occasionally and giggles inanely at everything they say, stroking Mr M’s leg, but she is increasingly ignored as they talk about business.  I see Mr M. shift in his seat to dislodge her hand from his knee, she lets it fall as if by accident, and quickly uses the hand to grab her wine glass. She looks away from the table out across the water, her crow’s feet highlighted in the flickering candles. She looks sad, and old.  Between courses, she excuses herself from the table and walks past me in the main salon, down to her cabin.  She is gone for a few minutes, and I am waiting for her to return before serving the main course.  The owner tells me not to wait, but I run quickly down to the cabin and knock on the door.  She opens it, a cloud of marijuana smoke envelops me and her eyes are red and barely open.

“I’m 39, you know.  I have five children, all boys, and the oldest one asked me the other day what I do for a living.  He is starting to suspect.” I think she is going to cry.  I don’t know what to say.  “It’s ok," she says, patting me on the arm, strangely thinking that I am the one who needs comforting.  “A few more trips like this and I will have enough saved to never have to do it again.  And as long as I have drugs,"and she nods to the joint in her hand, “then everything’s fine.” 

“Are you coming up for the main?” I ask.

“No, just save me some.  They don’t want me there anyway.”  I hear Dana calling, and run up and serve dinner for two.

I clear the main course back to the galley, only to realise that Dana has disappeared.  I immediately assume that she has gone for cocaine or a sleep, and check in our cabin.  She’s not there. I walk along the dock, looking for her, in case she’s gone for a cigarette.  I go back to the galley to wait for her to return, I’m a bit stressed as Mr. M has asked that dessert comes quickly. He laughs when he says that, a dirty laugh, and I practically run away from the table, a creeping sensation at the base of my spine.  10 minutes later, Dana comes up from the guests cabins, smiling.

 “Where the fuck have you been?" I ask.  "He's impatient for dessert- and I don’t even know what it is! What am I serving?"

 “Calm down, Mr M will be very happy with dessert, don’t you worry.”  She runs out into the salon, and comes back with two linen napkins and two spoons.  “Now Jo, you have to go out to the men, ask them to follow you down to the guest cabins, open the door and say, 'Gentlemen, tonight, dessert is served in the cabin.'" I look at her uncertainly, she pushes me slightly, “Go, go now." And so, with rising dread, I fetch the men and hear them whispering behind me as I lead them down the stairs, hesitantly open the cabin door and announce,  “Tonight...” And there, on a bed covered in a sheet of industrial plastic, spreadeagled below a mirrored ceiling, is Tiffany, covered in whipped cream and strawberries. 

“Come in boys,” she coos, and they obey.  She is smiling, but her eyes are red.  And I hand the men their spoons and napkins, and leave them there, her there, being crawled all over by two horrible old men. 

I run upstairs to Dana.

 “Isn’t it great- we had to keep it from you, me and the captain, we knew you’d hate it-that’s what was in the bags!”  She is so pleased with herself, and we go out together to the dock to have a cigarette, as my mind tries to avoid what I have been party to.  Dana lies face-down on the dock , craning her head to look in the porthole.  She calls me over, “Ooh, I can barely see," she says.  “Wasn’t it the funniest thing ever?” And she starts to laugh.  The side of my mouth starts to twitch, the way it does when you laugh at inappropriate things, and it sets me off.  Before long, we are laughing hysterically, although when we stop, I wonder if Tiffany could hear us through the hull.  I am immediately ashamed of myself, and decide to quit when we get back to Fort Lauderdale on Monday.  This isn’t my thing.  Singapore be damned.

We wake to a grey and choppy sea, and we set off for Key West.  It is rough weather, and Dana reverts to form by refusing to cook.

“I’m seasick," she whines.

“You work on a boat- what did you expect?” I ask angrily. She's lying in her bunk flicking through a magazine.  There is a swell, but the sea really isn’t that rough, and I am convinced she is just being lazy.  I am standing in the cabin doorway with a pile of her fresh laundry, and I see that the last pile I’ve done has just been pushed onto the floor again. 

“I’ve left the steaks out, you cook them if you're not seasick.  It’s not hard, I’m sure even you could manage it.”  With that, she turns out the reading light above her head and closes her eyes.  My brain snaps.

“Well you can stick it up your ass," and I throw the armful of clothes all over her as hard as I can and run to find the captain.  As far as insults go, it wasn’t really one I’m proud of, if purely for its lack of panache.  The captain is in the bridge, and I complain to him about Dana’s laziness and refusal to cook.  He looks annoyed.  

“Dana is my princess and you will do what she tells you to.  And yes, you should cook the steaks.”  I go into the galley and bang and crash around as I am cooking, things roll off the bench and I can’t find anything I am looking for.  My fury is at fever pitch by the time Dana finally comes up to take over in the final minutes.

I am angrily watching her plate up as I feel a tongue slide into my ear.  I jump and scream as I turn to see Mr M. standing next to me on tip-toes.  I run to the other side of the bench.  Dana looks up quickly,

“Mr M. Jo’s not here for that, I’ve told you that. The captain’s told you that.  It’s not part of the deal.  That’s why we brought Tiffany."

“But Tiffany’s boring," he says petulantly, like a young boy who is bored with his new toy. “She’s stupid, Jo’s much more interesting.”  He leers at me.

"What about me?  Aren’t I interesting?” Dana says, and takes his arm and leads him away, expertly grabbing his attention.  She looks over her shoulder at me as she leaves, mouths ‘You ok?’ and I nod at her gratefully.  She knows how to handle him, and I am aware that she saved me from having to either yell at him or push him away. I find myself profoundly wishing for the kind of yacht owner who sees you only as the help and therefore not as a potential conquest.  I don’t want to give the wrong impression of yachting here, this is the only time in many years of yachting that an owner behaved inappropriately towards me, and it is safe to say that this yacht was untypical.

The next day goes smoothly, apart from Tiffany being bundled off into a car while loudly protesting,

 “You promised you’d pay me for three days!” while the men sit reading their papers, resolutely ignoring the woman they’d eaten strawberries and cream off only the night before.  I am ecstatic to hear that we will go back to Fort Lauderdale on Sunday night, a day early.  The next morning, when Mr M. leaves, he grabs my hand and says,

“It was perfect, everything is going to be great, see you next time”, which I sincerely doubted, yet I say my polite goodbyes and wave them off.

 "Let’s go out for lunch”, Tiffany cries as soon as they’ve left.  This sounds like an excellent idea. I love crew lunches. Paid for by the boat, they are a celebration of the trip just finished, less of a ‘job well done’ meal than a ‘thank god they’ve gone’ meal.  I say yes, and decide to quit that night instead, after I’ve had a free lunch in a lovely restaurant.  Except we aren't going to a lovely restaurant, I suddenly realise as we pull into the giant car park of ‘Solid Gold’.  Dana has gotten her way once again, and we are going to her old work. Her old strip club.   I look around nervously, I have never been to a strip club, and given the events of the last week, was even less inclined than normally to view the sex industry with an open mind. 

Simon sees me panicking.

“It’ll be fine. See it as an experience.  You only have to do it once.”  Singapore, Singapore, Singapore, I think.  I am an adult, I can go to a strip club.  For lunch. With my co-workers.  Nothing weird here at all. 

We go inside to a cavernous room filled with tall palm trees in pots and stars painted on a black ceiling.  The place is almost empty, a couple of bored-looking men hold beers while half-watching an even more bored-looking young woman swing around a pole.  The ‘lunch’ on offer comes from a bain marie, and as it is all crumbed, deep fried or covered in sauce, I can't tell if there’s anything gluten free.  I pile some wilted salad onto my plate.  At least Singapore had foie gras and Moet to offer while stuffing around with my moral compass.  We take our food to a table by the stage, and we form a weird semi-circle.  What surprises me is that the men barely even look at the girl on stage, only looking up now and then to see that she has been replaced by another. They comment, sure, and rate them compared to each other, but then everyone goes back to talking about work.  It’s not quite the den of iniquity I had been expecting.  It all has a whiff of the mundane about it, not at all helped by the strippers looking like they would prefer to be anywhere else.  This place was managing to be simultaneously seedy and mundane. 

Dana seems professionally offended by the display, and eyes the girls critically.  All of a sudden she jumps up and runs off.  She returns a couple of minutes later, eyes sparkling,

“I’ll show them how it’s done. I spoke to the manager, and he’s said I can strip for you guys, for old time’s sake!"  She squeals, jumps up and down like a cheerleader in her excitement, and runs off.  The men laugh, and go back to their conversation; they know Dana well enough not to be surprised by now.  I however, am surprised enough to make up for all of them when the girl I share a cabin with comes onto the stage, takes off her underwear and starts bending over and swinging around the pole in front of us, only stopping now and then to grin at us excitedly and give us the thumbs up. I have to hand it to her, she approached the job with enthusiasm, and her body, even accepting that some of it was made of plastic, is extraordinary. She is beautiful, and I see that the bored looking men at the next table are no longer looking so bored.  When the song stops, she runs off, puts her clothes back on and comes back to sit at the table, looking utterly happy.  

“I’ve still got it”, she exults, unable to sit still. The manager, who is standing with us, hears her.

"Too right babe! Any chance you’ll come back and work for us?”  She flicks her hair and looks at him coyly,

“No thanks Steve, I have a job that is going to pay me even more than stripping!”  I look at her strangely, as that probably isn’t true, not with the money she could earn in big strip club like this.  Not for the first time, I wonder what she’s getting paid.

We leave the club, and Dana jumps into the car excitedly, still on a massive high.  I look at her, all lit up and shining and exuding sheer charisma, and I would defy any man in the world to say no to her at this very moment.  She seems happy to be stripping again, but it is clear that it’s not about the stripping itself, but the attention, and the validation that she is beautiful in the eyes of men-in the eyes of everyone- and definitely not too old.  Not yet, anyway.  She clutches my arm like a little girl,

 "Let’s go for a drink, let’s let’s!"  But I say no, I tell her I am tired but I am actually going back to the boat with the captain in order to resign.  She gets a little sulky to not get her own way, but convinces the young American deckhand to go with her.  He looks like all of his Christmases have come at once, and we drop them off near the Elbo Room on the beachfront, where a live band is playing loudly. We drive along the front, past the palm trees and Hooters and people rollerblading, and I look out across the beach at the Baywatch huts, the bronzed bodies playing volleyball and the kitesurfers flying high above the waves, and I think that Florida had most certainly lived up to its stereotype.   I was sure that there were parts of America I would love, but this here, this certainly wasn’t it. 

Back at the boat, I go to my cabin and rehearse my speech.  I find the captain on the aft deck, sitting up on the edge of the capping rail, smoking. 

“How did you find it then?” he asks. 

“What, the strip club?” I ask.

"No," he smiles, “Although that Dana-she’s quite the character, isn’t she?  I nod. I mean the trip, with the boss.” 

"It was an education," I say diplomatically.

“We didn’t think you’d cope, Dana and I. With Tiffany and things.   Not our Jackie O.  But you did well, and you passed.”

“I passed?” I asked wonderingly. 

“Yes, and because you did so well, I’ve decided that I’ll tell you what is really going on here. We’ve been waiting to see how you did, because you see, it’s not exactly legal.”  I’ve been doing something criminal?  I think wonderingly, and my mind races back to the day when the guy I was living with in Sloane Square told me I’d been living in a squat paying rent to a junkie and not knowing it. Doing illegal things by accident is apparently my thing. 

“What do you mean, exactly, by illegal?’

“Well, this trip was a trial run.” 

“I know that bit.   We were doing a trial run for the owner, so he can charter it out."

Yes, but what we didn’t tell you, is that we are going to run an illegal brothel off Atlantis Casino.   Nassau.  In the Bahamas”, he offers, seeing my confused look.  “Don’t worry, you were never going to have to do anything like that, you would have just been crew like on any other boat.  Oh, like any other boat except that this one is a BROTHEL, I think.  

“Except Dana, he continued. "She’s special.  Without her, this whole thing couldn’t happen.  She’s the one that’s going to go into the casino and get the men back to the boat.  We can’t do it without her, that’s why I didn’t back you when she refused to cook." I still haven’t spoken, and am looking out across the water.  He talks faster.   “We’ll all get a commission on the girls, it’ll be like we’re going into business together- no captain-crew hierarchy.  A commission, from prostitution? my brain screams .  I will myself to look at the captain.

"Oh, this isn’t for me at all.  I can’t do that. I hate prostitution.”  He looks at me, visibly hurt that I have turned down the offer, clearly thinking that I am judging him, which of course, I am. 

“You’ll regret it, you know.  We are going to make so much money."

“Money just doesn’t mean that much to me.  I’ll be off the boat in the morning. Good luck finding a new stewardess though.”

An Australian, working on a boat setting up to be an illegal brothel, and not knowing it.  It just doesn’t get much better than that.  As I take my pay from the would-be brothel and order a taxi to the airport for a flight to Antigua, I muddle over which one is more stupendously gullible: living in a Sloane Square squat or working on a floating Bahamian bordello?