Running Against the Tide

by Captain Lee

  Dinner had gone about as well as could be expected with someone like Duane at the table. Everyone was coming back on the little transport dingy when he just couldn’t hold himself back anymore. After two hours of not acting like a complete asshole, he just had to vent some of his inner heel or he was going to explode.

  For some reason, he targeted the chief stewardess, getting right in her airspace, and there was no escape for her. Seeing he had a captive audience, he started shaking his crotch right in her face. I don’t know why he’d act that way, but he seemed to think he was God’s gift to women. No self-awareness at all. His arrogance was off the charts, but he had nothing to be arrogant about. The guy had a unibrow that was pure prophylactic. He couldn’t get laid in a women’s prison with a handful of pardons. But he wasn’t attacking the chief stew because he was trying to put the moves on her—he was just being an asshole because he was an asshole, and that was just the way he’d decided to show his colors that day.

  She tried to make the best of it, tried to be professional in front of clients, but she couldn’t let it slide. Desperate, she grabbed a fresh water hose and sprayed him a little bit, just to make it clear she wasn’t finding it funny. He totally overreacted to getting a little water on him. He still had a take-home beer with him, and he poured it right over her head, right in front of everyone. Then he said, “Now who’s wet, bitch?”

  It was horrible. It was humiliating for the chief stew, it was unprofessional, and it was in no way something that anyone would expect or accept. The clients were mortified. They insisted that he apologize to her.

  “Who? That bitch?” he asked.

  They were not amused. They again demanded he apologize.

  “She’s not really bothered, trust me. She just sprayed me, and is acting all hurt now, just to get attention from the rest of you dummies.”

  Again, they made it clear an apology was mandatory.

  Duane dropped to his knees, lowering his head in mock penitence.

  “Please, I beg of you,” he said, each word dripping with insincerity and sarcasm, “you’ve got to see how sorry I am! Oh, heavens above, accept my, like, super apology! For shame, for shame!” When he was done, he jumped up and said, “Not really, bitch.”

  When the clients told me what happened, I was livid.

  “I want you to apologize to her, right now,” I said.

  “I already did that.”

  “I don’t mean your bullshit song and dance.”

  “I think she liked it. She was totally into it. Most women are.”

  “I’m done with you.”

  “Fine, skip, I’ll see you tomorrow for breakfast.”

  “No, I’m done with your shit. Go to your quarters and stay there until I hand you a plane ticket home.”

  “You’re firing me?”

  “No, I’m sending you to your room. When I get off the phone, then I’ll fire you. There’s no way we’re working together after the shit you pulled.”

  “Okay, call Harry. And you might just be right. But don’t be surprised if you’re the one hitting the bricks, pops.”

  He talked a big game, but he did exactly as I’d told him, going straight to his quarters. Then again, where was he going to go? He was so drunk, he’d have been unable to find his way off the boat on his own. I wanted to kick his ass, but I also didn’t want there to be any reason that he could give to Harry that might make him want to keep Duane around, or to suspect that I’d acted unprofessionally. He was my next call.

  “Duane has got to go.”

  “What happened?”

  I told him about how Duane treated the chief stew, and that it all happened in front of clients.

  “That’s pretty serious,” Harry said.

  “You got that right.”

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “How’s that?” he asked.

  “Talking doesn’t work on this guy. I’ve tried, you’ve tried, and he’s still an asshole. There comes a point where all the promises don’t mean anything. He is who he is, and it’s never going to change.”

  “You’re not giving him enough of a chance,” Harry said.

  “The guy’s had more lives on this boat than a cat. I can’t work with him anymore. Everyone on board, including the clients, hates his guts. I’ve got to cut him loose.”

  “You might be overreacting.”

  “Look, I’m at the end of my rope. He’s an embarrassment to the boat and a damn lawsuit waiting to happen for you. I absolutely refuse to work with this guy. So, either you can let me fire him, or I walk, and you can find someone who actually can stand him. It’s him or me. Just decide who’s more important to you.”

  “Look, I don’t think that’s necessary.”

  “It was probably necessary eight months ago when I first came on board. Now it’s just a fact. Do you want to find a new chef or a new captain?”

  He thought for a few seconds, and I could tell there was an equal likelihood of him going either way.

  “Obviously, a captain is more important than a chef,” he said. Which was true, though he wasn’t really answering who he’d rather have remain on the boat. “If you feel you have to let him go, then that’s your call.”

  “Great,” I said, and hung up.

  By the next morning, I had a gift for Duane: a plane ticket taking him back to Florida, one-way.

  “This was a piece of shit boat anyway,” he said, taking the ticket.

  “And the plastic,” I said. As the chef, Duane had a boat credit card, for purchasing food, booze, scouring pads, and anything else he’d need in the kitchen.

  “Yeah, sure, whatever,” he said, handing it to me. “See you around.”

  “Let’s hope not,” I said. I was relieved that I hadn’t been forced to use a crowbar to separate Duane from the boat credit card.

  Turned out, that feeling of relief was a little premature.

  There’s a saying among mobsters, that if you’re not stealing a little, then you’re stealing a lot. And Duane not putting up a fight about the boat credit card should have told me that he had bigger plans for that line of credit.

  Turned out that he’d had a duplicate made of the card, and as soon as he walked off that gangplank, he went directly to one of the nicest hotels in the USVI and got himself a $500-per-night suite. And he didn’t confine his spending to the room. He managed to do a pretty good job of racking up charges for fancy restaurants, bars, and any other way he could find to entertain himself at the owners’ expense. Even worse to me, as it turns out, is the fact that Harry was probably 100 percent okay with this.

  I’d had it. Even though the owners had finally let me give Duane the boot, it was just outrageous that he’d lasted as long as he had. There was no excuse for it. The captain has to be the captain. He’s the one that makes the tough calls, and if they want to second guess the captain, then they should get their asses down to the boat and make those decisions themselves. Just not the kind of arrangement I was looking for. As soon as I finished up the charter season, I told them I wouldn’t be coming back.

  And Duane? As soon as I was gone, that was the first person Harry called up. Wanted him back on the payroll. Even after showing up drunk. Even after pouring a beer on a crewmate and calling her a bitch in front of charter clients. Even after stealing from him to the tune of thousands of dollars by ripping off the boat credit card, Harry still couldn’t see that Duane was bad news.

  It takes a lifetime of blood, sweat, and tears to become a captain, but the only thing you need to be an owner is deep pockets. Some are good, and some keep hiring guys like Duane.

  Live and learn.

  Chapter 10

  This Is Not Your Personal Fucking Party Palace

  They say money can’t buy happiness. And while it’s true that poverty sure as hell can’t get you much, there’s no guarantee that having a ton of cash is going to make anyone’s life a joy to live. When you live and work in the world of
superyachts, you see a lot of money. You need to be incredibly wealthy in order to inhabit that world. But that kind of money only gets you a boat—it doesn’t buy you satisfaction, or peace of mind, and it sure as hell is no guarantee for happiness. There’s a difference between buying a boat because you love the sea and buying a boat because you love to be seen. If you buy a yacht because you get a thrill out of being on the water, of being able to see the sunset over the horizon, of knowing you can go places and see things that most of the world is denied, then that vessel will be an instrument to open your eyes and touch your soul. If you buy a yacht because it’s the best way to show the world your bank balance, then it’s going to take you a little longer to reach nirvana.

  My best experiences as a captain came with working with old-money owners. Often, these owners were taught to love the water by their father or grandfather, were taught that yachting was a way to experience joy. These owners were also taught that the people who worked for them were to be treated like people, like they had emotions and dignity, and in some cases, they were even taught to treat the people who worked for them like family. They would keep the same people on for season after season, for year after year. Sometimes, captains and crew would work the same boat, or a series of boats, for the same owner until they retired.

  Not everyone worked that way, unfortunately.

  New-money owners didn’t perceive the people who worked for them in the same way. They saw their captains and crew as basically objects that did their bidding and could be replaced instantly should the need arise. The purpose of the boat was to advertise how successful they were, and the people who worked for them were supposed to contribute to that image. For a lot of those new-money type of owners, their money proved that they were special people. Their net worth was a way to measure how valuable they were as individuals. And when you think being rich makes you better, then it’s perhaps not surprising, though at the same time horribly sad, that you might think that having to work for a living in order to pay the rent makes you worse. Those people would then, inevitably, treat people accordingly.

  That was the kind of experience I had working with a couple I’ll call Pete and Patty Monarch.

  The Monarchs were so wealthy, they didn’t just own one yacht, but two of them, a 120-foot Trinity called the Sea Hag III and a 116-foot Feadship called the Sea Hag II. I served as the captain of the Feadship, the “little” boat, which basically functioned as the supply ship and overflow hotel for the larger Trinity, which the Monarchs used as their flagship yacht for entertaining.

  And did they entertain.

  For winter, the Monarchs would keep their boats in San Diego, but when the weather got warm, and cravings turned from ceviche to pinot grigio, they would cruise them up to the Bay Area. They owned an enormous apartment just across the street from the water in a brand-new building, a palatial set of rooms that must have cost $25 million.

  When I arrived with my crew, we docked right next to the Sea Hag III, and it looked like we’d caught them in the middle of some kind of fire drill. Everyone was running around, moving like crazy. What was the rush? They had just arrived a short time before we did. They’d docked purely for the purpose of cleaning up before the next party. That meant the crew had to work their asses off traveling for almost four days, bring the boat in, clean it from top to bottom, and restock all their stores before departing on a dinner cruise at seven o’ clock that night. They made it happen, and they left on time, only to return after seeing the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz, Fisherman’s Wharf, all the standard highlights, coming back to the dock at two in the morning.

  Time for a rest, right?

  Wrong.

  Just a few minutes after everyone from the cruise disembarked, a fleet of black SUVs arrived, disgorging a platoon of new, fresh guests ready to party. They got on the boat, and off they went, returning to the docks at about eight in the morning.

  That’s a hell of a strain to put on a crew. Work them for over three days straight, then, on no rest, make them go nonstop for another twelve hours? Demanding a pace like that seemed downright sadistic. But when you see the people who work for you more as trained seals or robots that can’t feel pain or fatigue, it made it a lot easier.

  The Monarchs were an unusual couple. They did things their own way, which was their right, but they also did things in a way that seemed to minimize their happiness while simultaneously putting a strain on everyone around them.

  For instance, they lived in that gigantic apartment, and had every convenience money could buy: the best Viking pro ovens, the elite Sub-Zero fridges, the top-of-the-line Wolf cooktops. But they refused to use them. The Monarchs said they didn’t want their apartment to smell like food. Okay, not a problem, since San Francisco is one of the greatest food cities in the world, with outstanding restaurants showcasing the most celebrated chefs on the planet. So, what did they do? They called down to their boat, ordering their chef to prepare their dinners, which we were instructed to send on a dolly, across six lanes of traffic, to their apartment. Well, that was also within their rights as owners, and we employed a very talented and well-compensated chef who’d graduated from a top culinary academy who could grill, sear, barbecue, sous-vide, or flambé pretty much any kind of menu they could possibly request. So, what did they want?

  Mac and cheese. Pizza rolls. Frozen deep-dish pizzas. Franks and beans. Borderline TV dinners. And don’t get me wrong—I enjoy a good plate of mac and cheese every once in a while. But when you have the means to have anything in the world, why deprive yourself of something great? Why employ a chef on a yacht to make you hot dogs? There’s a whole world out there to see and touch and taste—so why go through it wearing dark shades and rubber gloves?

  Still, it was their money, and if they wanted to buy an apartment and never use the kitchen so they could eat hot dogs prepared on their yacht, then that was their call. The part that really bothered me was how they treated people.

  A lot of the time, my boat was just a floating hotel. For the most part, Pete and Patty Monarch would prefer to do cruises in their boat, the Sea Hag III, and just use the Sea Hag II as a crash pad for guests that didn’t quite make the A-list for their boat. One of those people was Irving.

  Irving was an executive at their company, though calling him that conjures forth images of stiff collars, straight ties, leather briefcases, and some aura of professionalism. Irving, unfortunately, conveyed none of that imagery himself. As far as I could tell, what he brought to the plate was convincing Patty and Pete that he thought they were geniuses, and he was therefore indispensable.

  He’d been on the Sea Hag III, partying all night with the Monarchs, when he finally decided to call it quits and head back to his stateroom on my boat. He dragged his ass in around four thirty in the morning and passed out. It wasn’t my job to judge, so that was fine. But then at eight, I got a call from Patty.

  “How’s Irving doing over there? Does he need anything?” she asked.

  “Well, he went down a couple hours ago. Still resting, as far as I can tell.”

  “Do you have fresh bagels ready for him? He likes fresh bagels for his breakfast.”

  “No, Patty, not yet. I was about to head out to get some, but I don’t think there’s much of a rush. Irving didn’t get in until a little before five this morning, so if today is like most of the other days he’s been on our boat, I don’t expect he’ll rise until about two this afternoon at the earliest.”

  “Are you saying you don’t have them on board yet?”

  “Not yet, but they’ll be ready for him once he gets up.”

  “I didn’t ask when he was going to get up, I asked if there were fresh bagels ready for him.”

  “Well, no. But he’s not going to be looking for breakfast for—”

  “You need to stop fucking talking back to me! It’s your job to take care of my guests! Not judge how they like to party! He likes fucking bagels, you fucking idiot! Can you understand that? Can you understand that so
me people like bagels? And some people like corn flakes? And some people like motherfucking steak and eggs for breakfast? You can understand that, can’t you?” Needless to say, she had a mouth that I wouldn’t eat with, and a very limited vocabulary, to say the least.

  “Of course,” I said, gritting my teeth.

  “Well, he likes bagels. And how do you think bagels taste best? When they’re fresh? Or when they’re stale?”

  “Fresher is always better,” I said, edging ever closer to the brink of my patience with this Tuesday.

  “Thank you, god dammit! I’m so relieved that you aren’t going to argue with me anymore on whether fresh is better than stale! Christ, it seems like it should be so easy! So, if he likes bagels for breakfast, why don’t you have fresh bagels ready for his motherfucking breakfast?”

  “Patty, he doesn’t take his ‘breakfast’ until the afternoon. So, I could get bagels now, but that would mean that they’re just going to sit in the galley, getting stale, for the next six hours.”

  “What time is breakfast?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Yeah, you should fucking apologize, you asshole! But what time is breakfast?”

  “For most people, it’s between six and eight in the morning.”

  “Thank you! Again! You’ve proved my point! Breakfast, Lee, is served IN THE FUCKING MORNING! Why are you trying to tell me that breakfast is served after noon? Which would mean that breakfast would come AFTER LUNCH? Does breakfast come after lunch?” Her logic, or lack thereof, never ceased to amaze me.

  “No, it does not.”

  “Exactly! So, stop arguing shit with me and send someone out to get some bagels for Irving so he won’t have to wait ALL MOTHERFUCKING DAY for someone to get him his GODDAMN breakfast bagels when he wakes up! Fucking hell!”