I received a call from Jethro; I hadn’t heard from him for a few years. He offered me some work on his new boat, Motor Yacht Zeba, a 40-metre Benetti (Italian-built yacht). I flew to Los Angeles on the strength of that phone call, spending the night at the airport and then getting a flight to La Paz on the Baha in Mexico. As soon as we flew over the Mexican border, the captain announced we could smoke. It would be rude not to, I thought, as I borrowed a ciggy from my neighbour.
Upon arrival, I was going through immigration when I was stopped for questioning. I had no papers, just my passport, very little money, no phone and I was arriving on a one-way ticket.
I got through OK, and I was sat on the steps outside the airport. It occurred to me that with only a few quid in my pocket and no credit card that I might be in the sh** here. I had no means of contacting anyone. I waited a few hours and Jethro rolled up in a taxi. With a sigh of relief, I jumped in, and we were off to the marina. Zeba was tied up on the T dock, engines already running. We stepped aboard and left immediately, setting sail for Puerto Vallarta. I could learn the boat en-route.
I met Donald, the captain and the rest of the crew. I’d only known Jethro from a few days in San Diego several years ago and stayed in his company while I figured this boat out. After you’d been on a few yachts, you realised that they tended to have a fairly standard layout with the odd quirk thrown in. This one had MTU engines, German-built (MTU Friedrichshafen GmbH meaning Motor and Turbine Unit). It was the same type used for trains, tanks and now large yachts. The engine room was a bit of a mess, but it was a long way from Europe and its natural home of 220-volt power and Italian spares.
Arriving in Puerta Vallarta, Donald took the crew out for a fabulous dinner at an Argentinian steak house.
Jethro left the next day for his holiday and then I was in charge.
The owner liked to use the boat on the weekends as he lived in Mexico City, so we fell into a routine of spending all week getting the yacht ready. The deck guys would wash down and clean the whole vessel. The girls cleaned and detailed the interior, and huge amounts of flowers would arrive to fill the boat. Booze would be stocked up, and the galley would prep and prepare.
I would busy myself in the engine room and try to complete Jethro’s dream sheet.
I got on well with Donald, the captain, he kept an extraordinary cellar of wine, loved his food, and we’d spend many evenings on board – the best restaurant in Puerta Vallarta.
On Friday, there was the buzz of the owner’s arrival. The crew had been working hard to bring the yacht to pristine condition. It looked like a superstar crib; all the art was out and the place was spotless.
As an engineer, you do one of your final walkarounds, and when it’s all working and looking sharp, it’s one of the best jobs around.
Hotel systems had to be the most crucial aspect of a yacht for an owner or guest as the form and function directly affected their experiences aboard. They arrived, the TVs on, laptop out, now what was the WIFI code?
The crisp cool interior was a welcome relief as the air conditioning was doing battle with the 40+ degrees outside with 90% relative humidity.
Everyone was hyped and on standby for the next move.
We would find out around 7pm or 8pm if the owner was coming. The pilot would call from the private jet to say he’d taken off. Otherwise, it was stand down. We never knew if we had the weekend off until the jet pilot called in. No owner: Donald would take us out for a slap-up crew meal. He was at least the equal of Ethan and the bar bill often exceeded the food. We tried out all the best restaurants in Puerta Vallarta, of which there were many.
My favourite bar in town was the converted lighthouse in the marina, El Faro; they had the best Margaritas. Only ever drink 100% agave tequila, triple sec, freshly squeezed lime, an open box of sea salt on the bar for the rim. If you’re going to have a drink, drink the best or don’t bother.
You could be ruined by yachting as well. With four-figure lunches, you experienced the best of the best, and it was hard to go back to slop and the radioactive coloured sodas the Americans love so much.
One owner I knew drank only Romanée-Conti wine from a particular vintage. A bottle a day was opened as he slurped his way through the 40,000-dollar wine, often leaving a glassful in the bottle. The call would go out to the crew from the galley, and they took turns having a sip.
The guests could also select the same label but not the same vintage.
Another owner would have a full banquet for lunch or dinner as well as a buffet set up on the jacuzzi deck and possibly a BBQ on a beach – all at the same time. He could then decide what he wanted, and it would all be ready instantly; whichever he didn’t choose, the crew would eat, or it would go through the macerator and into fish food.
I’d seen whole suckling pigs macerated as it wasn’t someone’s fancy that day. It was extreme decadence but nothing new under the sun.
Alongside Turkey, an owner woke up deciding he would like a roast goat for the evening’s meal. Even the old Roman Emperor Caligula realised some prep was needed, so the chef mentioned this to the captain.
“Consider it done. We’ll run ashore and have a goat slaughtered,” the principal was told.
“No, no, you misunderstand. I want a goat from my own farm,” the principal replied.
Thousands of miles away, a call was made to the farm, “We need to have some of your finest goats slaughtered and prepped for the owner. We’ll charter a plane. Call me when ready.”
‘No’ was not a word in an owner’s vocabulary.
The tipsy son of another owner returned to the boat late at night, saying, “I’d like a Ferrari in the morning, please.” There was a flurry of activity from the crew. Late calls were made, and a gleaming 488 was on the dock by breakfast, “Who ordered that?” the son said.
“You did, sir.”
“Did I? I’d completely forgotten. Oh well, I suppose we could go for a spin later.”
Another weekend arrived on Motor Yacht Zeba and I could tell the owners were coming. In the galley sat three large pots on the stove bubbling away, one full of beef bones, one fish bones and carcasses, the other vegetables. The chef prepared fresh stock as he could make anything from those.
The guests arrived, and we sailed first thing. I breakfasted and went onto the bridge to chat with the captain. I looked through the binoculars and could see a Mexican frigate shadowing us. We had the Spanish Prime Minister on board, hence a bit of extra security.
We spent the weekend at anchor and the guests went about their business. As the engineer, I spent most of my time in the crew mess, engine room or on the bridge; there wasn’t much else to do, so I was just on standby. Life on board was a bowl of cherries, tea and tiffin, and G and Ts on the bridge.
I had the water makers running 24/7. They were a Heath-Robinson affair crammed starboard aft near the rear door hydraulics. They were one of the more essential bits of kit, as without water, you would be in a world of pain. In the middle of the night, I got an alarm and ran into the engine room; all was well, nothing going on, the engines were off, just a Genset was running.
I went aft and saw one of the reverse osmosis plants had a leak on the high-pressure side before the membrane; it was p***ing seawater everywhere. I shut it down. The line had chaffed and split a 17 bar 250psi pressure line. We had no spares on board. I checked under the crew mess, below the decks and forward where all our spares were kept. Nothing.
I decided to call the captain; I needed help on this one. Donald came down, and we worked together through the night, fabricating a temporary repair with layers of heavy hose cut to shape and loads of jubilee clips. It took a few attempts as the pressure was immense. We managed it; she was running until we got back alongside in Puerto Vallarta.
At the dock, we settled into our weekly routine, preparing for another potential arrival on Friday.
I met up with a local heating ventilation and air conditioning guy, a South African with a small shop. I got some spare hoses through him, and the reverse osmosis plant was back online.
The programme was much like being in Los Angeles in Marina Del Rey, working mid-week and waiting for the owner at the weekend. I finally flew off for another gig and Jethro returned.
When I went back again, Zeba was in San Diego, on the hard (drydock) in Chula Vista. The boat had a massive hole cut in her port side, both generator sets had been removed, deck plates and frames too, just about everything had been gutted from the engine room except the main engines. There were no pipes or anything.
Outside was a massive pile of scrap where it had all been thrown.
It was August, and the owners only stipulation was that he wanted the boat in Acapulco for New Year’s Eve; it was a mammoth task. It was undergoing a complete generator rebuild on both port and starboard and a water maker redesign, new units installed, and new fresh and hot water systems. I gave Millwall and Stocko, my day worker friends, a call as I needed more help on this one.
We were still at the design stage, figuring out the pipework and how the new systems would sit in the empty space we currently had. We were also refitting the galley and whatever other projects we could squeeze in during the time in the yard.
She was an Italian boat in an American yard, meaning I had to order electrical and switchgear from Europe. The US stuff was really agricultural with big switches that looked like they should be in a Frankenstein movie. I couldn’t cope; it had to be Bticino (Italian electrical products) all the way.
Jethro was flying back to Ireland to get married, and I was just meant to be standing in for him. Unfortunately, he was fired via text as he arrived in London Heathrow.
Donald asked me to stay for the project, and I agreed as I needed the work. Unfortunately, like a lot of engineers, I wasn’t great at negotiating the right package. I was just on a day rate, free food and accommodation, but no holidays or any other advantages. I’m better at it now, and I can only equate to the film Jerry Maguire to see how it’s done in life as well; it’s taken me a long time for the penny drop, the one I’d seen at Vodafone but forgotten.
I talk to engineers all the time and they are often exceptional at their jobs, much like sports personalities, but terrible at negotiating the right deal. I understand why; it’s because you’re dealing directly with the captain, who is the owner’s representative. Unlike on commercial ships, where the crew are picked by management onshore and just sent to do a job. Often a commercial ship’s captain has never met new personnel as they arrive at various ports. The shore side management arrange all the manning and crew movements. They are just the job they do.
A lot of commercial airlines run the same way. The crews assemble before a flight having never met and, as they are trained in standard practices, they do the job they are familiar with. As you walk on a long-haul aircraft you may assume the crew all know each other. They probably have only just met a short time previously.
Yachting is entirely different. The captain decides all on board and he keeps the crew set up the way he and the owner want it.
I’ve known crew fired for being too ugly. It’s a harsh world indeed. The owner just didn’t want the guy on board. There was more to it than just looks; he was a heavy smoker and had yellow fingers like chippy Frankie, and his personal hygiene was poor enough for him to have BO to keep you a mile away. It wasn’t what the owner was looking for.
I had another conversation with a class one chief engineer on a very high-profile yacht often in the news. He was excited at just being promoted to chief from second, and his friend bumped up to second from third. He wasn’t quite happy with his package, but hey, it would get better. He’d fallen into the classic trap of negotiating with the person who is or would become your friend, the captain. The captain had wanted those jobs filled or it was a royal pain having to find new people.
If the chief had involved an agent, the agent would have negotiated on his behalf without relationships getting sullied. The engineer would have got the best deal. Cuba Gooding in the film Jerry Maguire is the engineer or crew; the team is the yacht.
Over the next few years, while still working on yachts, I’d hatched the idea of forming my own business placing crew on the vessels. It was a risky strategy as I would immediately alienate myself from the other crew agents and a vital source of employment.
I had seen the process by which crew are picked up on these boats, often word of mouth, ingratiating yourself with an ‘old boy’ network or being an agent’s favourite.
It worked but was often clumsy and awkward. A satellite call to an office in Antibes or Fort Lauderdale would result in a late-night fax printed on thermal paper, often barely legible and a blacked-out image for a photo.
There had to be a better way. With my four floppy drives, each containing my friends and colleagues I had met along the way, I decided I was going to go for it and announce to the yachting world that I was going to become a crew agent.
I was excited yet nervous. I may never work again on yachts as other crew agents wouldn’t touch me once I become the competition. With this in mind, I would take the plunge. I knew I’d miss the camaraderie and adventure of working on yachts as I ventured forward as a crew agent in this extraordinary business. Still, it was a new adventure and one I was ready to dive into.
I intended to focus on engineers since that was what I knew
My business model? Jerry Maguire. Who else?