What it’s really like working as a Yacht Charter host

Alex Hartley gives Yachting Monthly a glimpse into life as a yacht charter host in Greece and reveals the pros and cons

Fair weather sailors will undoubtedly be familiar with the flotilla. From family-friendly holidays to booze cruises, many readers will know the feeling of arriving at a fleet garnished with flags of blue and yellow, orange or green. Flotillas begin with afternoons waiting in the taverna whilst the crew deal with last-minute ‘routine maintenance’ (spoiler: it’s never routine).

Flotillas end with hugs, leftover bottles of olive oil and exclamations of, ‘See you next year!’ But what is flotilla life really like, behind the sunglasses, flip flops and handheld VHFs?

Patrons know flotilla as raft-building, group meals and morning briefings. It’s where many of the best intentions of the RYA and Day Skipper initiatives go for a crash course in alternative mooring. Being on a flotilla is slipping lines and having a slight fumble whilst recalling how to hoist sails, with last year’s sailing holiday a distant memory.

It’s about finding elusive sea legs once more and breathing with a sigh of relief as the recommended bay appears around the headland, or anticipating the inevitable smattering of choice words between fraught crew members as their boat hurtles towards the concrete quay.

For us – your willing, abiding, calm and well-presented crew – your week with us is a glimpse into our life, and our life is exceptional. For us, scenery morphs into an opportunity. A volcanic, craggy stretch rendered a perfect opportunity for a long-lined raft.

An expansive and peaceful bay soon to be semi-immortalised by whiteboard marker, shared on the Whatsapp group and christened as another fabled ‘lunch stop’. We spend evenings perusing the menu we’ve seen 20 times before, sharing the same taverna with a different ensemble of holiday makers, unfamiliar and familiar intertwined.

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It’s clocking your fellow crew as you realise the wind has shifted. The raft we convinced the guests was perfectly safe is now looking a little precarious. Another beer?

It’s the peculiar matchmaking that goes along with the job, strangers at the start of the season now inevitably and forever attached, knitted together by the trauma and joy of running a ‘Flot’ together. It’s the crew confabulations as our fleet enter the previously calm harbour with well-spaced out vessels.

There’s not really enough space here for our 11 boats, but we’ve made our assessment, calculated and verified which boats will stand up to the challenge. Much time is spent whispering to each other as we’re docking a boat: ‘What’s their name?’ ‘Vicky and James, James, that’s James.’ ‘That’s right, James, just make sure that mooring line is attached to your cleat before you throw it to me.’

It’s nodding, convincing and empathetic as guests exclaim, ‘Oh, but I am looking forward to a proper bed and not having to worry about filling up my water tanks.’ Except our incomprehension is very thinly veiled, we haven’t slept in a proper bed in months and topping up water tanks is as normal as emptying holding tanks. We awake as the wind changes, waking up to check the weather before scrolling through Instagram.

Our life is slipping lines, turning the volume on the stereo up, coffee in hand and feet on the wheel. It’s glancing towards familiar landmass – navigation instruments redundant. It’s the tentative first evening, relief and joy, as we meet sailors who are really just here for the social aspect.

For us, it’s one less boat to worry about and one more to drink with at the end of the day. For us, flotilla is late night tender rides into the bay to cool down after the intensity of the sun, beer cans rattling the next day as we untangle anchor chains.

Sometimes we’re sweating lines in 40°C heat, pleading with Jeremy to put the boat in neutral and wondering how far your patience and diplomacy will stretch as he insists they are already in neutral. Sometimes it feels like trying to carry two watermelons under one arm, as the Greek saying goes.

Except sometimes it feels like arriving at home, only that home changes every evening. It’s the complementary Freddo Espresso (medium sugar), the beer on the house and the kiss on the cheek. It’s having everyone in the local Greek equivalent of Sainsbury’s know who you are because you purchase inordinate amounts of toilet roll.

It’s unexpectedly seeing other flotilla crew – comrades, brothers-in-arms – recounting the same experiences only the names and places have changed. It’s the irony that in all the beauty the only tales that are remembered are the ones where things went terribly wrong. Sometimes we remind ourselves that the current storm and the latest crossed anchor will soon morph into fond recollection in the taverna. It’s saying goodbye at the end of the week, hours before saying hello to the next.

It’s waving away the taxis, part of us wishing we were going home too. But of course, the cleaners have arrived, loo roll has been bought, the main briefing has been prepared. It’s time to do it all again.

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