In a moment of desperate, overcooked exhaustion, somewhere between my 87th quinoa salad and the 912th vegan-gluten-free-keto-raw-sugar-free cheesecake, I realized I needed help. A rotation. A break. A nap. Anything.

And that’s when he appeared — like a mirage wearing Ray-Bans and the scent of aged Marlboro Lights — Christian.

He pulled up to the dock in what could generously be described as a convertible sports car, though in reality, it was more like a rusted-out tin can held together with duct tape, wishful thinking, and probably cocaine residue from the late ’90s. He had a guitar slung over his back, hair like a villain from a Tim Burton film, and the vibe of someone who had just gotten kicked out of an indie rock festival… for being too high.

“I cook with passion, man,” he said, staring into the horizon like he was about to recite Bukowski. 

Red flag? No. I was too tired to notice. Hell, I would’ve hired SpongeBob at that point if he promised to cook crew lunch.

Day 1: He served dinner for one guest. It was mediocre at best — somewhere between Coachella food truck fusion and stoner microwave experiment. Then he told Amanda the stewardess that he didn’t have time to cook for the crew because he had to go provisioning. At 9 PM. In Miami. Wearing flip-flops and smelling like Axe body spray and broken dreams.

The next morning? Nowhere to be found. Apparently, our poetic chef had spent the night playing grunge ballads at a bar in South Beach and forgot that being a yacht chef includes, well… cooking.

Still, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he just needed to settle in. Maybe he was a misunderstood genius. Maybe I needed to get more sleep. I handed him a simple task: Cook for one guest and six crew for one week — $500 a day. It seemed fair.

What could go wrong?

Everything.

On Day 3, I got a call from the captain in full DEFCON 1 mode.

“Chef, I opened his cabin door. He’s unconscious. There’s vomit. There’s… other stuff. The stench is a mix between death, tequila, and a Taco Bell bathroom at 3AM.”

Apparently, Chef Christian had reached a level of inebriation usually reserved for rockstars and Russian oligarchs. He had confused a closet for a toilet and decided to relieve himself in it. Fully. All systems go. The entire digestive symphony. A crescendo of shame.

That’s when we realized: Christian was not a chef. He was a functional alcoholic impersonating a chef with nothing but a spatula, a dream, and a Les Paul covered in stickers.

Needless to say, the “rotation” was dead. And not long after, so was my job — collateral damage in this increasingly common tale of burnout and betrayal-by-guitar.

The bigger problem: substance abuse is sinking this industry

Behind the laughter, behind the chaos, behind the puddle of vomit and Jack Daniels in Cabin 2 — there’s a real crisis.

Substance abuse is decimating the yachting industry.

We’re hiring band members instead of professionals. We’re choosing the available over the qualified. And the crew, already isolated and overworked, are numbing their pain with whatever’s accessible: booze, pills, powder… or fantasy gigs that never existed.

The truth? Mental health is not just a side note — it’s the engine room of this industry. And right now, it’s flooding.

⚓ A note of hope

If we don’t start prioritizing crew wellness, we’ll continue to lose incredible talent to exhaustion, addiction, and despair.

We need:

• Mental health support on board.
• Drug testing that’s more than a checkbox.
• Safe spaces for recovery — not judgment.
• And better systems to vet chefs who think provisioning at midnight in flip-flops is a culinary strategy.

Let’s laugh at Christian, sure. But let’s not forget there are hundreds like him, falling through the cracks — or showing up in convertibles.

Because behind every closet-pooper with a Fender is a system that failed both the boat and the person.

And next time someone shows up to a yacht galley with a guitar on their back… send them back to Coachella. With love. 💔🎸