During our voyage from the Bahamas over to St Thomas; I had envisioned afternoons of sprawling across one of our orange striped lounging cushions up on the sun deck with the soft breeze running through the tips of my hair and the warm sun lashing across my cheek, casually flipping through the pages of a magazine. The reality was that I had to squeeze myself into the only available space, as what was once a beautiful spacious sun deck with loungers, professionally folded towels and an inviting Jacuzzi bubbling away in the centre; was now a storage yard for the jet ski’s and anything else we needed to strap to our vessel. All of the orange fabric was covered with plastic covers and the whole platform was covered in salt so thick that it reminded me of when we made chemical reaction inside of a petri dish in primary school.
I find the only Lucia shaped spot available and awkwardly squeeze myself in. I am forced to lean my neck against the railings and I must hold the weight of my own legs as the length supporting me does not reach far enough. The wind hits me with brute force and my hair goes back over its own parting: slapping itself securely across the opposite cheek, the tips curling into my mouth. I loosen the grasp of my magazine and the front-page rips off, flying into the unknown.
Placing the magazine securely under my bum, I lay back. The salt spits into my face and the roundness of the pole juts into the back of my neck. I manage an impressive thirty minutes like this before I venture in search of a better plot. I find one near the stairs where there is enough space to hold my entire body flat but the downfall is the sun will only reach the left side of my body. I give it a try, wiggling my bikini up and down: all the time aware that the cameras could have been switched to reveal my scantily clad body to all of the crew in the lounge downstairs. I manage another ten minutes before I return, defeated, my skin as milk bottle white as ever.
Most of the time spent ‘underway’ is lost to sleeping. It is impossible to resist After working day in and day out serving our glorious guests, every bone in our bodies is physically exhausted.
We are only required to work a few hours a day whilst at sea. My watches are from 6am to 8pm and 6pm till 8pm. I plan to get lots of personal admin, grooming and tanning done in between these times, but find myself slipping slowly under the covers, resurfacing only at feeding times.
During the watch, I the ‘lookout’ must carry out checks every fifteen minutes, whereby I walk through the interior to check that the cupboards have not spit out every pair of our dear owners shoes, like last time. We are also required to walk around the decks, ensuring that we our tender is still in tow and that the straps are still holding our jet skis and external furniture down. I am lucky enough to have the sunset and sunrise watch, which makes my checks just that little bit more pleasurable. A dead fish greeted Lauren on her deck check, apparently all sorts of strange things can turn up. The first mate told her to chuck it back in the ocean, which obviously I would refuse, as did she.
I do have a little giggle to myself as I go outside, a novice sailor; raincoat zipped up, life jacket on, my not quite yet fully-fledged sea legs dancing across the teak. It feels great to look out across the ocean and one watch I even get to see Puerto Rico pass us by.
Placing the magazine securely under my bum, I lay back. The salt spits into my face and the roundness of the pole juts into the back of my neck. I manage an impressive thirty minutes like this before I venture in search of a better plot. I find one near the stairs where there is enough space to hold my entire body flat but the downfall is the sun will only reach the left side of my body. I give it a try, wiggling my bikini up and down: all the time aware that the cameras could have been switched to reveal my scantily clad body to all of the crew in the lounge downstairs. I manage another ten minutes before I return, defeated, my skin as milk bottle white as ever.
Most of the time spent ‘underway’ is lost to sleeping. It is impossible to resist After working day in and day out serving our glorious guests, every bone in our bodies is physically exhausted.
We are only required to work a few hours a day whilst at sea. My watches are from 6am to 8pm and 6pm till 8pm. I plan to get lots of personal admin, grooming and tanning done in between these times, but find myself slipping slowly under the covers, resurfacing only at feeding times.
During the watch, I the ‘lookout’ must carry out checks every fifteen minutes, whereby I walk through the interior to check that the cupboards have not spit out every pair of our dear owners shoes, like last time. We are also required to walk around the decks, ensuring that we our tender is still in tow and that the straps are still holding our jet skis and external furniture down. I am lucky enough to have the sunset and sunrise watch, which makes my checks just that little bit more pleasurable. A dead fish greeted Lauren on her deck check, apparently all sorts of strange things can turn up. The first mate told her to chuck it back in the ocean, which obviously I would refuse, as did she.
I do have a little giggle to myself as I go outside, a novice sailor; raincoat zipped up, life jacket on, my not quite yet fully-fledged sea legs dancing across the teak. It feels great to look out across the ocean and one watch I even get to see Puerto Rico pass us by.
The two-hour watches can go very slowly, the first mate not being the most talkative of people. You can have some amazing conversations with him once you get him started; stories of his homeland (South Africa) and some of the breathtaking locations his yachting career has taken him. I have tried a combination of talking at him, asking hundreds of questions or surrendering to utter silence. I wonder if he is grateful towards my efforts of talking the time away just switches off his ears and counts down the minutes until switchover; I am guessing the latter.