Once upon a dockside horror story, in a marina not so far away, there floated a little gem called M/Y Tres Amigos — a 30-meter vessel where dreams went to drown and crew careers went to die. The name, ironically, suggested fraternity, loyalty, and tequila shots under the moonlight. In reality, it should have been called M/Y Three Dictators, but even Orwell might’ve found that too on the nose.

At first glance, the three owners arrived like benevolent monarchs — shaking hands, clapping backs, and throwing around words like “family.” But like a Tinder date gone wrong, the mask slipped fast. Suddenly, the “family” they spoke of was less Fast & Furious and more Game of Thrones, with a side of Hunger Games thrown in for entertainment.

The crew of five — noble souls armed with STCW certificates and misplaced optimism — soon discovered that 20-hour days weren’t a glitch in the matrix but the “normal hours” of operation in this floating dystopia. Public holidays? Maltese, or otherwise? Those became myths whispered about in the crew mess, like unicorns or well-behaved charter guests.

Meanwhile, the stewardesses revolved through the boat like seasonal staff at a haunted house. Why? Because one of the owners decided that “derogatory comments and gestures” were his personal brand of entertainment. HR didn’t exist onboard, unless you count the captain, who had long since mastered the art of the bobblehead: “Yes, boss. Of course, boss. Jump off the flybridge? How high, boss?”

And what about safety, you ask? Blocked emergency exits. No fire drills. Watch schedules ignored. Basically, if the boat ever caught fire, the crew could only hope to roast evenly.

Paychecks? Delayed. Food? Sporadic. Respect? Nonexistent. One weekend the crew was given food so late that even the rats on the dock were filing complaints. Captains cycled through faster than Tinder swipes on a lonely Friday night. Chief stews came and went like understudies in a play no one wanted to star in.

And yet, the owners’ philosophy remained steadfast: “There are so many greenies out there, we’ll never run out of people desperate enough to take the job.” Translation: crew are disposable — like paper napkins at a fast-food joint.

🎭 The Bigger Picture

M/Y Tres Amigos isn’t an isolated disaster; it’s a case study in how stupidity and greed get institutionalized in yachting. Owners convinced they are omnipotent because they pay a salary. Captains bullied into silence. Crew gaslighted into believing that 20-hour days and abuse are just “the grind.”

The industry has turned into a theater where everyone plays their part:

• The owners play gods.
• The captains play puppets.
• The crew play martyrs.

And the audience? The agencies and management companies who clap politely and keep selling tickets.

Unless this cycle of abuse, neglect, and willful ignorance is broken, the industry risks collapsing into its own abyss — an abyss of chaos where safety, respect, and humanity are the first things sacrificed at the altar of luxury.

🌊 Final Word

The warning about M/Y Tres Amigos should not just scare new crew away from one vessel. It should be a mirror to the entire industry: when crew are treated like disposable cutlery, the entire banquet eventually collapses.

Because in the end, yachts are supposed to be about freedom, adventure, and beauty on the water. But what good is a sunset at anchor if, behind the scenes, the crew are chained to a system that burns them out, chews them up, and spits them overboard?

And so, the moral of the story: Avoid M/Y Tres Amigos… but also, avoid an industry that takes silence and compliance as consent.