Below Deck

When I make it into the crew mess, I see Marcel Petit, the chef on the Helios, already seated, tapping his fingers on the table and glaring at me in annoyance. He’s the same age as me, grew up in France, trained in Paris at the Cordon Bleu, understands English, but has never, in all the charters I’ve worked with him, ever uttered anything but French curse words. At least I’m assuming that’s what’s coming out of his mouth when he’s banging around the galley, slamming pots and pans and screaming words I don’t understand.

I squeeze behind the ten-person corner nook table, sliding across the bench seat and around to the back of the table next to Marcel just as Captain Michael enters from the stairs that lead up to the bridge. Ashley quickly scrambles into a chair across from us, immediately donning an air of professionalism with a lift of her chin and her hands clasped neatly in front of her on the table, knowing full well she has to be on her best behavior in front of the captain.

“The Armstrong family,” Captain Michael starts right in without a greeting, tossing each of us a stapled packet of computer printouts.

The packets fly across the smooth surface of the table and we all have to slap our hands down on top of them to stop the pages from falling into our laps. We quietly flip through the dossier on tomorrow’s charter guests as the captain takes a seat on the other side of me, pulling a pen out of the breast pocket of his white button down uniform shirt and jotting a few notes on his own packet before he continues.

“Our main charter guest is Mark Armstrong, early sixties, independent software developer who worked out of his basement until he made his first hundred million selling a dating app,” the captain continues as Ashley and I stare at the small square photo of Mark Armstrong next to his short bio.

Each guest for tomorrow’s charter has pretty much the same information—photo, relationship to the main charter guest (the one who booked it and paid for it), dietary restrictions, special requests for food and activities, and what they do for a living. Mostly, the main charter guest is the only one who actually makes money, all the rest are just along for the ride to act like entitled assholes and spend all of his or her money. Which seems to be the case, yet again, for tomorrow’s guests as I listen and read along with Captain Michael as he ticks off facts about the people Mark Armstrong is bringing with him to abuse us for the next ten days.

Allyson Drake-Swanson-Armstrong, early forties and Mark Armstrong’s new bride as of a few weeks ago.

Judging by the number of hyphens in her name, I’m going to assume Mark won’t be her last husband, and the poor schmucks she was married to before him are probably the ones responsible for all the plastic surgery she’s had on her face.

I listen half-assed to the captain explain the rest of the guests, flipping ahead to the last page. My jaw drops open at the photo staring back at me. I’ve seen my fill of hot women by working on a yacht for four years. And since they’re rich, hot women, they can afford to be nipped and tucked and lifted in all the right places to make sure their assets are top of the line. I’ve seen hot women in evening gowns, I’ve seen hot women in thong bikinis, I’ve seen hot women in sundresses with their tits practically falling out, and I’ve seen hot women lying on the upper sundeck with nothing but the Caribbean sun covering them.

What I’ve never seen before is a woman who could make my jaw drop and find it impossible to tear my eyes away from her photo and the information printed next to it.

Mackenzie Armstrong, late twenties, daughter to Mark Armstrong.

Graduated top of her class at NYU in graphic design, immediately went to work for her father and sits on the board of several of his charities. No dietary restrictions, and her special requests are to drive a jet ski and swim with dolphins.

Sits on the board for several charities is code for, “Doesn’t really have a job other than spending daddy’s money throwing fancy parties.”

Even knowing this information, I still can’t stop staring at her picture. Long dark hair with a few strands blowing across her face, light blue eyes the color of the ocean water outside, full, gorgeous lips and a dimple in one cheek as she smiles the biggest smile at whoever took the photo. Maybe I’m struck dumb because these guest bios usually contain professional headshots against boring photo studio backdrops, or stupid ass selfies people take in front of the mirror, like the ones the rest of the Armstrong clan used. This picture of Mackenzie Armstrong is candid and real and someone took it when she was mid-laugh, which lights up her entire face.

“These people have more money than God, so do your jobs, don’t fuck anything up, and hopefully we’ll get a nice tip at the end of the charter,” Captain Michael finishes, pushing himself up off the bench and exiting the room.

His words dump a bucket of cold water on my libido, and I shove the packet away from me in annoyance. Another snobby, entitled group of guests who can afford to throw away $200,000 a week to charter a yacht and who’ll treat the crew like shit, just like all the other guests I’ve encountered in the last four years.

There are a lot of rules in yachting, but nothing more sacred than the holy trinity—never go anywhere without your radio, never shit where you eat, and never, ever cross the line with a guest.

It’s not like it matters that one little photo of her made my dick hard. She’s still one of them, born with a silver spoon in her mouth and wouldn’t know anything about a hard day’s work if it smacked her in the face, and completely off limits.