I’d never seen the ocean turn that particular shade of grey. I could barely discern where the steel grey waves stopped and the concrete grey sky began, especially when the boat heeled to a forty-five-degree angle.
Smash! The starboard cupboard flung open with a force that catapulted half a dozen glass vases from their shelf. They broke apart on the floor like sputtering tomato sauce on a hot stove. I had securely taped that cupboard and thought it was safe, but nothing in all my years of being a yacht chef prepared me for the violence of this storm.
For the past twelve years, I have traveled the oceans cooking onboard a yacht for discerning clientele. I have shopped in markets in the Caribbean, in the South Pacific, and in the Mediterranean. I have prepared meals for rock stars, business tycoons and movie stars. The pressure is always high and the behind-closed-doors scene is frequently chaotic, but never had I been asked to cook in such a rollercoaster of a galley before.
From my refuge on the cool marble floor, I tilted my head and studied the shards of glass scattered in front of me. I thought about pushing myself up off the floor to gather them, but I couldn’t summon enough emotion to care. I just wanted to lie there until the storm ended.
Ella, our stewardess crawled into the galley, looking greener than the bowl of peas I served for dinner the night before. “They are asking for dinner at seven.” Her voice was a monotone of dullness. Blue eyes normally danced like sunlight on the water, but at that moment they held about as much life as a blob of silly putty.
“In this?” I asked as we careened off the next wave. The boat shuddered as we impacted with the water below. I became airborne and wondered how the food would stay on the plate.
“I don’t know. They’re crazy.” Ella lay down beside me as I rose to clean up the mess and start dinner.
I clutched the counter for the next wave and was thrown into the corner with the force of another drop. The oncoming slaughter of waves was relentless. A bruise formed on my hip as I braced myself for the next plunge. This was no way to create a meal. But, in the yachting industry, you never said no.
Earlier in the day, I had planned to make an Indonesian fish curry to serve with spring rolls and stir-fried greens, but sambal olek, shrimp paste, and deep-frying didn’t sound like the best options right then. Did they really want dinner? I thought. Are they nuts?
But, they were the guests and technically were paying me to be in this situation, so if they wanted dinner at seven, then they would get dinner at seven. Usually dinner consisted of four to five courses served on Bulgari fine china and accompanied by high-end wines, decanted and poured into crystal glasses. The women dressed in the latest fashion with diamonds and black pearls to accentuate the look, while the men would sip martinis and exchange stock tips. It was an elegant, civilized affair. But, not that night. The frantic waves and hurricane-force winds dictated a much less formal affair. Roast chicken and mashed potatoes sounded like all I, or anyone else, could handle.