I was a cook on yachts for some time, starting off on a little sail boat and finally retiring at the ripe old age of 30 to have a family. Of course I was every crew on the smaller yachts – cook/ bottlewasher /stewardess / / deckhand and not to mention the Captain’s pleasure as I was once described by a prospective employer who employment offer was quickly withdrawn – something to do with all the four letter words I promptly added to my verbal CV, including some in Italian, French, Spanish, West Indian but mostly English and not at all ladylike!
I finally graduated as Chief cook and Hostess onto my first small but perfectly formed super yacht. Finally I thought, my days of having my head down every head was over, but greater delights were in store for me. This yacht did not have the luxury of self stowing anchor chains, so it was my and the stewardess’s job to drop whatever we were doing when the Mate called and to go into the chain locker and flake the chains as they were pulled in.
Not so easy when I was in the middle of cooking a soufflé!
Anyway suitable armed with my marigolds and apron, I would dash forward from the hot steamy galley and climb down into the dank, cold, smelly chain lockers and wait poised. The chain was washed by a pump spewing out seawater to run down the chain as it clanked upwards. It did get most of the sand and mud off the chain but not all of it so the chains would cascade down into the lockers, carrying with them smelly mud, water, clingy seaweed and little sea creatures who with out their permission found themselves going on vacation to destinations unknown – hence the marigolds!
All would be well and relatively quick if the yacht was on its way to pastures new, so the stew and I would then climb out of the ‘air conditioning’ into the heat of the day and disappear into our respective parts of the yacht to carry on with said soufflé or preparing to serve said soufflé!
This easy and quick job could go belly up if the Captain was re-anchoring because this might take several drops and retrievals of the anchors until he was satisfied with the positioning etc, so stewie and I would be up and down the chain lockers steps like dollies on a string – we would have to vacate the chain lockers each time the anchors were released not only for safety reasons, but also because the speed of the drops made the chains flail so violently that all the muck attached them shot off in all directions, so white uniforms regardless of aprons and marigold cover, instantly became polka dot brown.
The other problem with this particular yacht was her engine exhausts instead of exiting on the waterline, emerged about eight feet above the top deck. Great when in motion for keeping the fumes away from guests laying sunbathing eight feet below, but not so hot when the engines were started from cold. They would roar into life and blow large clumps of carbon out of the exhausts which promptly floated down gently coating everything on the entire top deck in sticky carbon.
This really upset not only the guests who while wanting a suntan did not want to be jet black, it infuriated the crew who had spent hours cleaning the decks, the launches, the loungers etc. So the engineer fed up with all the complaining devised a cunning plan which involved raiding the female crews’ laundry and stealing all their pairs of tights.
A pair of tights with the feet knotted together, was attached to a by the tights waistband to a child’s shrimp net. This net, complete with its fine mesh catcher, aka tights, fitted snugly over the offensive exhausts and caught the carbon as it was expelled. They worked a treat! However the initial force of the exhausts could blow these contraptions off so they had to be held in place by a member of the crew. As the deckhands were busy getting the yacht ready to move, the task of net holders fell to guess who – the cook and stewardess!
The nets remained in place for perhaps five to ten minutes until the engines were warm and the carbon residue ceased. Upon removal, the by now very full tights were removed, discarded and a fresh pair attached to the bamboo ring of the shrimp net and stowed away ready for next time.
This was fine when the yacht was leaving harbour because we could take our time with the nets, although we did attract some strange looks, but when the yacht had been at anchor, we had to be in two places at once and believe me it’s a long way from the top deck down three storeys and into the bilges so we would leave the tights hopefully to stay where they were, dash down below and stow the chains, then rush back up to remove the nets at our leisure.
Our finest moment came in Antigua when we left an overnight anchorage in Falmouth to sail around the corner into English harbour which is a very short trip indeed, to pick up our very proud owner and her newly arrived guests.
So normal routine as usual, nets on, engines started, anchors up, chains stowed, mooring lines ready and fenders (cook and stew again) ready to go stern to the dock and receive our guests.
The yacht looked beautiful, polished and glistening in the sunlight as we sailed round the headland and majestically entered the inner part of English Harbour. The Captain dropped both anchors and reversed perfectly into a very tight slot, lines went ashore, fenders perfectly placed, the passerail lowered, Owner and guests helped on board to find champagne ready and waiting on the top deck.
It wasn’t until later that evening when the stewardess went up onto the top deck to tidy up that she noticed both nets were still in place, very full and stretched with the weight of the carbon. They drooped down with the knotted toes just touching the deck like ballerinas on points! We had sailed into the harbour with bright red tights gaily streaming out behind us and forgotten in the rush.
Our Owner when apologised to for this undignified addition to her yacht, laughed and said she thought that they were some kind of new pennants flying high to welcome her guests! I just thanked god that for once both pairs were matching!
