Confessions of a Yachtie

On the bow of the boat, sunset views, and a sweats-only dress code—yacht life, but make it realistic.

I didn’t think I’d ever become one of those people who says things like, “I’m currently docked in Costa Rica for the month,” or casually normalizes sleeping three feet from a stranger in a floating metal box.

And yet… here we are.

Being a yachtie sounds glamorous in theory—some curated version of life at sea involving crisp white linen, champagne on the beach, and sunsets that look like they’re straight out of Nat Geo. And sure, there are moments like that.

But most of the time, it’s something else entirely.

So consider this my unofficial confessional at sea.

The fantasy vs. the mildly chaotic reality

Before I ever stepped into this world, I had an idea of what it would be like—but the magnitude of the reality was nothing I could’ve expected.

It’s humbling how easily you’ll be confused, how quickly you’ll pick up the most bizarre tricks, and how many times you’ll say “copy that” after understanding roughly 15% of what was just said.

But that’s also the beauty of it—organized chaos.

There’s a rhythm to the unnatural structure that almost mimics the tides. It ebbs and flows until, somehow, it becomes second nature.

Honestly, call me Shakespeare at this point because that analogy? Beautiful.

But Megan, how did you end up here?

In my normal life, no one graduates high school and says, “Yep, yachting—that’s the career path for me.”

At least not anyone I know.

The decision to do this is rarely linear—definitely wasn’t for me. It was years of going back and forth between “I could do that” and “is that stupid?” both internally and very much out loud.

Then, all of a sudden, it shifted.

“I could do that” turned into “wait, I’m available,” which turned into “if not now, then when?”

And let me tell you—it wasn’t a graceful strut into the industry. It felt more like a shove off a ledge and hoping you land on your feet. And yes, the shove came from me. No one else. But still.

The craziest part is how your norm shifts like a silent assassin, and you start adapting to things that would’ve once seemed completely absurd.

Like living in a floating shoebox with eight other adult roommates.

That’s growth, I guess?

The unglamorous part…

Yes, there are some genuinely fabulous aspects of this job—I can’t even pretend otherwise.

But there are also moments that feel less like the Cannes Film Festival and more like an episode of Survivor.

For example: scrubbing a toilet at 11:50pm while running on four hours of sleep and one granola bar.

Sure, that toilet might be docked in Tahiti—but there’s a solid chance you haven’t seen daylight in 72 hours because you’ve been on laundry duty the entire trip.

Don’t even get me started on privacy. You don’t have it—you curate it.

And there’s this phenomenon where the second you think you’ve figured everything out—right when you start to feel comfortable—the rug gets pulled out from under you.

A last-minute lunch trip. Guests arriving in 30 minutes. The tender casually floating away.

You know. Normal things. Humbling, to say the least.

Why it still pulls you in

Despite the chaos, there’s something about this life that pulls you in like gravity.

Is it the thrill? The adventure? The lack of bills?

All valid.

But honestly, it’s the quiet moments in between the chaos that make it worth it.

Sunrises.
Sunsets.
Movie nights with the crew.
Exploring a new country.
Meeting people you never would’ve crossed paths with otherwise.

It’s this strange balance of working incredibly hard and actually getting to feel the payoff.

I have a confession

In full honesty, I have no idea what the hell I’m doing.

Half the time it’s business as usual. The other half, I’m having a full out-of-body experience thinking, “this cannot be real” and “what am I actually doing with my life?”

But I think that’s part of it.

Learning to roll with it. To “ride the wave,” for lack of a better term.

There’s truly nothing like living in a place where “home” stays the same, but the zip code constantly changes.

You never really settle—you just adjust.

And somehow, that becomes the whole point.