If you’ve ever tried explaining your job to someone who doesn’t work in yachting, you already know where this is going. You start with enthusiasm, talking about the travel, the luxury, the once-in-a-lifetime experiences, and end up sounding like you’ve joined a secret society where everyone wears polos and speaks in acronyms.
Because here’s the truth: your non-yachtie friends have absolutely no idea what you do. And honestly? That’s fine.
There’s always that pause after you’ve answered “So what do you do?” You see their eyebrows lift, you can almost hear their brain buffering, and then comes the follow-up: “Ohhh, so like Below Deck?” That’s when you know you’ve lost them. No matter how you try to explain it - the rotations, the working hours, the guest trips from hell - their mental image will always be a Bravo highlight reel with a side of chaos and champagne. You tell them it’s a real job with long hours, tight quarters, and actual responsibility. They nod politely, still picturing you pouring rosé in slow motion to tropical house music.
It doesn’t help that every photo you post looks like a gap-year fever dream. Turquoise water, tan lines, maybe a cheeky drink in hand. What your friends don’t see is the 14-hour day that came before it, the anchor watch that came after it, or the fact that you haven’t had a proper weekend in months. You’re working in paradise, but you’re still working. Try explaining that to someone who thinks rotation is a Pilates move.
Time zones and tender runs make you the world’s worst texter. You’ll vanish for weeks during a trip, then reappear with a photo that makes it look like you’ve joined a cult of sunset worshippers. Your friends on land have group chats about brunch; your group chats are about broken watermakers and provisioning nightmares. They think you’re ignoring them - you’re just trying to get Wi-Fi that doesn’t require sacrificing a goat to the satellite gods.
There’s no easy way to explain that your boss owns your time, your cabin mate snores through storms, and you’re trying to get a caviar stain out of a €5,000 shirt. The details sound too ridiculous to be true, and the modest version sounds boring. So you start simplifying: “Yeah, I work on yachts.” And that’s usually enough.
But here’s the thing: you don’t do it for them to understand. You do it because it’s an adventure most people will never experience. Because you’ve seen places that don’t even show up on postcards. Because you’ve learned how to make a life out of motion. And one day, when you decide to hang up the epaulettes, you’ll be the person in the room with stories that sound made-up but aren’t.
So next time someone says, “Oh, so it's like Below Deck?” smile. Let them think that. They’ll never fully get it, and that’s okay.
TL;DR: Your friends will never really understand what you do - not the hours, not the chaos, not the magic. But that’s fine. Yachting isn’t meant to be explained; it’s meant to be lived.
