How I Accidentally Became a Yacht Chef
I was a year out of culinary school when my business collapsed. Then a yacht called.
Starting over sounds tidy. What it really feels like is being new at something and having to play in a league you have not gotten comfortable in yet.
I know that feeling because I lived it. I was a man whose business had evaporated, whose house was gone, and whose confidence was buried under a pile of foreclosure papers. I wasn’t just looking for a job, I was looking for proof that I hadn’t used up my last chance.
A year earlier, “superyacht chef” wouldn’t have been on my list of possibilities. My catering business had crashed with the economy, and overnight, the work dried up. Most days, I felt like a failure who’d used up his chances.
Then came the phone call. A wealthy Minnesota family was looking for a chef, and through a culinary school connection, my name ended up on their list. I didn’t even know what the job was when I showed up for the interview.
For someone who had spent most of his life doubting himself, just being considered felt like a miracle.
When I walked down that dock on the St. Croix River for the first time, I was terrified. The air was heavy with diesel and damp wood, and the yacht, a gleaming white tower of steel, was so far removed from the world I knew that I almost turned around.
This wasn’t just a boat, it was a floating mansion. And somehow, I was supposed to walk aboard and cook like I belonged there.
Reality hit fast.
The head chef wasted no time tearing me down. Every barked order chipped at my confidence until I wondered if I’d ever measure up. By the end of those first weeks, I was sure I’d be fired.
I went to bed with my stomach in knots, convinced tomorrow would be the day they realized I didn’t belong.
But every morning, I tied on my apron anyway.
On the hardest nights, I’d replay small victories, graduating with honors, the ice sculpture that somehow made it into the commencement display. Tiny memories, but enough to remind me I had earned my place in a kitchen, even if I didn’t always feel it.
By summer’s end, the guests were gone and the season was winding down. I figured the adventure was over. Then the captain pulled me aside.
“The chef’s taking time off,” he said. “We’re moving the yacht south. Down the Mississippi, through the Gulf, around Florida. We’ll need someone in the galley. Interested?”
He could have asked me to swab decks and I would have said yes.
That trip south changed everything.
Without guests, the pace slowed. The crew grew closer in a way that only happens when you’re moving together through long stretches of water.
The pressure was gone, replaced by something that felt like a family.
I’d wake before dawn, step onto the deck, and watch the world come alive.
The river glowed like glass, the trees blazed with autumn fire, their reflections so perfect it felt like we were floating through a painting.
Just months before, I’d been staring at foreclosure papers. Now, I was watching the sunrise from the deck of a yacht.
Then one morning, the trees were gone.
I stepped outside and found a world without edges. Nothing but turquoise stretching in every direction.
The horizon disappeared. In that moment, something inside me shifted and survival gave way to belonging.
I didn’t know then what that moment would set in motion, a 13-year career that would take me around the world and eventually lead me to the life I live now.
But in that moment, I didn’t need to know the future.
We often wait to feel “ready” or “qualified” before we allow ourselves to belong. But belonging isn’t a badge you’re given at the door. It is a quiet byproduct of persistence.
You don’t find where you belong by waiting; you find it by tying on the apron and staying for the next shift.
If you’re in survival mode, stay on the boat. The scenery is about to change.
– R. Michael
If you’re comfortable sharing, what is one small thing you are doing to keep moving forward while you’re in 'survival mode'?
Your survival question became a compelling itch in my brain until I figured out just what was going on. You asked for a small thing, and small and large became entangled, thus the itch. I finally figured out my answer, and once I share it, I can rest again.
It started like this. Bruce. We encountered each other in a fiber arts forum. It was not like me at all to ask for guidance from anybody, but I asked it of him. He agreed, but said we wouldn't talk about fiber arts, we'd talk about spirituality. To shorten a story that takes a lifetime to tell, Bruce is a shaman. He is also an outspoken gay artist who was born into a devoted Mormon family who rejected him. He had to survive ways I'll never have to encounter. But his deepest words were "go into the dark until you find the light". Over the years, those words have enabled me to handle all manner of bumps in the road. I have learned to face the darkness with sacred curiosity.
I feel heaviness and sadness reading this, but also uplifted by possibility. Our world can change with one encounter. Thanks for sharing.