This article isn’t for my father today, as in about 3 hours, when I get home, I’ll be giving him a massive hug hello and catching up over the last 8 weeks.

This is for all those who have inundated me with messages asking me, “How do I become a yacht chef?”

Ultimately, truthfully, I don’t care how you become a yacht chef. I’m not a careers counsellor, or Google for that matter. And I certainly don’t get paid to give you advice ChatGPT can serve you up in 2 seconds. What a cow, I know. How to say HISS without actually making the sound.

Do you want to know the God’s honest truth about all of this? It’s not for the faint of heart. Sure, you’ve worked in hospitality, you’ve worked the line, you understand pressure. You’re ready to be a yacht chef. Okay cool, proud of you. You are in for such a rude awakening and reality check, I can’t even tell you.

I was 23 (I think, maybe 22) when I decided to sack off the long commutes, shit pay and kitchen degenerates for a “glamorous” super-rich lifestyle of cooking on yachts. I didn’t ask people how to do it, I googled “how to become a yacht chef” and I did it. Very Virgo energy of me, I know. I did my STCW, and a week later I was on a flight to Nice, France, to join a boat wintering in Imperia, Italy. With no frikkin clue what I was getting myself into.

I was essentially thrown into the role of sole chef during the off-winter, cooking for just crew, with little to no real knowledge, help or guidance. Going to the local Carrefour every second day to buy provisions, because I wasn’t even educated on how to provision properly. On my first ever watch, I was so ridiculously naive about the whole boat side of yachting, because let’s get serious, it’s way more than a cooking gig when you throw in security, safety, regulations and rules, that I went, “Right, if I do the log book at 4, then the next one at 8, I can get a run in at 6.” Which, looking back, is totally and utterly insane and somewhat laughable. Granted, I got served with a second penalty watch for my incompetence.

In fairness, I got a few of those on that first gig. Believe it or not, there are some right wankers in this industry. Narcissists, egos, small willies. You name it. Yachting’s got it! And as a greeny, you will very quickly be humbled that unless you know how to “play the game”, “smile and wave” and “lick some arse”, you will be man overboard, and the weekly drills certainly won’t prepare you for that.

I actually got fired from that gig, halfway through a boss trip. No explanation, no warning, just, “You didn’t bring your A game. Pack your shit, your flight’s been booked, you’ll be stepping off and replaced as soon as we get into port.” Just like that. Welcome to yachting.

I’m not going to pussyfoot around the fact that I’m a strong personality and a strong chef, and I will not lick any arse that I don’t think is worthy of licking, but in lieu of that, my career has taken the long way round.

My career as a sous was a hard one. I worked with some serious incompetence, but equally some brilliance, all of it teaching me who and what I want to be as a yacht chef. Look. At the end of the day, it was my path. I’m grateful for all of it, and I wouldn’t be where I am today if it wasn’t for it.

I’ve stepped in and out of this game a few times since that first STCW certificate was handed to me. It’s hard work. It’s a literal pressure cooker on water. It’s hospitality on steroids, for fuck’s sake!

It’s taken me years of self-work and self-exploration to get to a place where I am today, to love and be grateful for it all. Choose your hard, find joy in the small things, focus on the bigger picture and what matters. If you don’t, this industry will swallow you up and spit you out. And you will STILL keep coming back for more because the salary is so good, no land job will ever be able to match the lifestyle creep.

You think clocking in and out of a job 5 days a week, working with people you don’t like or would never interact with in the real world, is hard? Ha. Try living with them. Try bunking with them. Cos let’s be serious, my darling, this is still the real world, and you’re not going to get on with everyone. There will be politics, there will be drama. Shame, there was you thinking you left that shit in school. No, sweetie, they didn’t make a whole show on the matter for nothing.

Inevitably, you’ll shit where you eat. My advice… don’t do that. I know, I know. It works out for some people, but for the love of God, promise me you’ll make sure you’re very VERY sure. Also, seriously, don’t go for the person who’s already in a relationship, or married. Please, for the sake of the crew, avoid those slimy bastards like the plague. The cabin fever is never that bad.

Some boats do really have a great crew and, you know, ultimately you’re looking to tick boxes: great crew, good itinerary, cool owners, awesome package. And it is possible, it does exist! However, you’re green, and the likelihood of you bagging those gigs is slim to none, but manifest hard enough and, sure, it’s still possible. Realistically, you have to earn your stripes in this game. That’s the same for those of you thinking you’re gonna waltz straight into a rotational gig. You don’t even know what hours of rest are, darling. Slow down.

Gosh, there’s so much more to waffle on about. Arsehole guests who wake you up at 4am for food that they have no interest in eating because they’re off their nut. Sea states that will have you throwing up as soon as you see a toilet bowl, if you’re lucky enough to reach it, but you’re the only chef, so you pull yourself towards yourself and get your arse back upstairs and cook dinner. Desensitised to the notion of your boss bringing on a bunch of escorts on his boys’ trip, only having said goodbye to his wife and kids 2 days prior, after their portion of the trip onboard. Cabin mates that snore so obnoxiously loud that you’re staring at the ceiling all night, trying to find any hint of rhythm in their tone to trick your brain into thinking that’s exactly the sound you enjoy falling asleep to. Provisions that arrive looking so diabolical you want to lock yourself in the freezer and cry, because the pressure on you to produce for the whole crew’s tip is such a weight on your shoulders it stifles you.

You’re gonna miss your family, your friends, your cousin’s wedding, the birth of your nephew. Morbidly, the only thing that will grant you some unpaid leave is the death of a family member, and sometimes the captain may still even turn around and say, “You’ve got no chance,” and you’ll have to lose your job over it. You’ll miss a double bed, standing on land, Amazon parcels and the delivery man, privacy, even baths (that last one might be a personal one, in fairness). It will get to the point where you’ll have worked 8 weeks with one day off, so an evening off genuinely feels like a day off because you’ll be so used to grafting around the clock.

But it will hook you and you’ll grow to love it, grow to understand there’s so much magic, so much wonder and joy in the whole thing. A world to experience, even just by port. You’ll meet the most amazing people. You’ll have this undeniable camaraderie with other yachties because, maybe not literally, but we’re all in the same bloody boat. And yes, you will have to accept the fact that you ARE a yachtie, and not accepting it doesn’t make you better than all your peers, it just makes you a bellend.

It’s such an unbelievable blessing to live a life as yacht crew, the things you’ll get to see, do, experience. Even if just for a blip, a fleeting moment. I promise you, when you do get to experience that pink sunset, that spicy marg on the beach in January, that group of orcas swimming on your port side, you will forget all the other shit and it will make it all worth it.

Good luck in your journey, it’s going to be magical. Just don’t be naive enough to think it’s all sunshine and rainbows. In fact, it’s exactly that, but looking out of a galley window (if you’re lucky enough to have one). Take from that what you want.

Like I said, if you want to know any more, Google it. Or, in fact, @theyachtchef Dean has a whole bloody course on the matter. Little-known fact for you, I was his sous chef many moons ago, and he was that brilliance I was talking about earlier, remember? So go do his course.

https://www.becomeayachtchef.com/a/2148313718/buUdLitz

Now about that numbness of mine. Don’t worry, all sensation will come back, and after 8 weeks off I’ll be itching desperately to get back into my galley and do it all over again. That’s the flow of the game, baby.

And any yachties reading this thinking I’m too harsh or too pessimistic, I reckon you’re just really good at licking arse. Nibble, nibble?

Honestly, that’s a flex though. I am jealous.

Ciao brown cow x

(Oh, and pretty please promise me you won’t bring a hard-shell suitcase to your first gig. That is, unless you want your new crew to think you’re a knob.)

This is going to be a jolly ol’ ramble, so pull up a chair and make sure you’re comfortable.

This season really has been a bit disappointing. If I could sum it up in one word, it would be meh.

My creativity has been constantly stifled in a way you’d usually only expect on a private vessel. I’ve become a glorified à la carte restaurant specialising in the likes of Greek salad and buttered pasta. Granted, I completely understand that if it’s your holiday, you should be able to eat whatever you fancy. I’ve just personally never experienced anything like it. It’s jarring, to say the least.

I’ll never forget my first job when I called you crying my eyes out because the head chef was a complete psychopath, and you said, “In life, sometimes you need to eat shit sandwiches. To be able to chew, swallow, and get them down, you need to put some ketchup on them.”

So, in the spirit of ketchup, there has been some.

The crew is undeniably fabulous. Gosh, through it all, and it’s been a lot, we’ve somehow managed to keep our spirits high and our banter sharp. Frankly, a bond forged through cynicism and resilience.

Second squeeze of the sweet stuff: I’m the most tanned I’ve ever been in my cheffing era. Me and the foredeck have become rather accustomed to one another… I don’t hate that.

Crew food has lately become the only smidge of creativity I have left to offer. I’m currently running the freezers down and have given myself the challenge of not repeating the same meal twice. It’s getting weird and wonderful. They had what were coined “Shrek Balls” today. Very green Thai chicken balls, amongst other things.

My love language is, undeniably, feeding people, and in the most selfish way it brings me so much joy knowing my food can be a genuine smidge of… let’s say… ketchup, for the sake of context.

I’ve been thinking a lot about self-congruence lately. Am I actually living in alignment with the person I put out into the world?

For me, it’s surprisingly simple. If I say I’m going to do something, I should do it. That’s it.

As I get closer to 30, I’m trying to hold myself to that standard more than ever. Because if I wouldn’t trust someone whose actions never matched their words, why should I expect any different from myself?

Which brings me to my next train of thought. This one’s close to home.. *cough* Kerschbaumer *cough*.

There’s this joke doing the rounds online: “Am I autistic or am I just German?” It made me laugh because, thanks to you, I’m beginning to suspect I’ve inherited a fairly potent dose of Germantism.

It’s become a running joke with the crew that when I’m guest-facing, they have to keep an eye on my Germantistic tendencies. The directness, efficiency, punctuality, and a complete inability to do fake.

I’m doing well on the diplomacy front though.. promise.

And if we’re circling back to self-congruence, I’d say that’s one area where I’m completely aligned. I like things done properly. If I say I’ll do something, I do it. And I don’t enjoy fluff when clarity will do. I’m not being funny, but as someone who’s quite literally a high achiever, I expect nothing less of myself.

Which brings me to my next point. I did warn you to get comfortable.

With all the micromanaging and soul-destroying menus, I’ve found myself saying, “F**k it, who cares?” a lot lately. So much so that I’ve turned it into an acronym: FIWC. Pronounced fee-week.

It’s not that I don’t care. It’s that nobody cares as much as I do (when it comes to the food) and honestly… what’s the point? I don’t need to run at 100% all the time it seems.

Bleak, I know.

But that’s quite literally where we’re at in the season. It’s almost numbing. Thankfully, we’re still slapping ketchup on where we can.

Nearly three weeks until I’m home.

Get the wine chilling.

Love you,

Leandri x

Little update from my side.

We’re in the thick of it now. I suppose we can pretend my freezer is the trenches, seeing as I seem to take shelter in there between 16-hour days and wildly unrealistic demands.

We’re halfway through three back-to-back charters with 24-hour turnarounds. Management must think we’re bloody wizards, and they must be right because somehow we’re pulling it off.

I’ve been cooking some seriously sexy food, if I do say so myself.

I’ve also come to realise I really hate being told what to do. Shock. It absolutely stifles my creativity and flow, reducing me to an unimaginative chef. I suppose that’s the difference between cooking and creating.

I did two tasting menus on the last trip. One was called The Kids’ Table. I had the girls decorate it with crayons, paper tablecloths and party hats. I decided life’s too serious and I wanted to play on the guests’ nostalgia. It was definitely a career highlight. Some seriously sexy food came out of the galley, but it was also seriously fun. I spent the whole day making each element, music on, bopping around the galley, playing with ideas. I genuinely forgot I was at work. Bliss.

This trip’s a little different… let’s just say it’s a different level of clientele now.

I will say, weirdly, having to smile and wave like we are, as hard as it can be, has made me unbelievably grateful for my own life. I suppose happiness really is the ultimate currency, and to genuinely be happy… well, that’s a gift.

Behind the scenes we’re having a good time though. Laughing, being silly, goofing around. Not to say there aren’t moments of shock, panic, annoyance and disdain… I could go on. From everyone, not just me. That’s hospitality though. You get over it and move on. There’s no point festering in unnecessary negativity. I’m grateful for the people around me, grateful for my crew. I certainly couldn’t do this without them.

It’s weird being back in the South of France. The wealth here is just on a different level to the Caribbean. Is it bad if I say I think I prefer the Caribbean? I know, I know… you always want what you don’t have!

I will say though, the stone fruit and melons are mind-bogglingly exceptional, and the produce is just next level. That alone is enough reason for me to be stoked to be back in the Med. It’s not quite as fun though. Everything feels a little more serious and a little snootier. But let’s be honest, we’re so busy there’s not actually any time to enjoy it anyway, so I’ll just shut up and eat my peaches.

Sending love from the trenches,

Leandri x

Sat writing this with an undeniable sense of melancholy lingering over me. I head back to work tomorrow, and I can’t shake the feeling of dread. I know it’s all fabricated and unnecessary. Maybe it’s the torn ligament in my thumb. Maybe it’s being away for too long, so going back just feels odd. Or maybe it’s bloody Maybelline… who knows.

This time off was about R&R, connecting with family and friends, which I definitely did. It also made me realise I’m not someone who can sit still. I’m also not someone who needs eight weeks off every eight weeks. The last stretch always feels a little too long, like I’m a lost fart, and I don’t particularly like the idea of being a lost fart. If I can’t sit still, what the heck am I doing sitting around still? I don’t know. I’m thinking out loud. Maybe I should just quit my whine and stick to wine.

The family holiday to Madeira was definitely the highlight of my time off. Shout out to Mum for turning 60 and giving us our first proper family holiday in 13 years.

Would I go back? Probably not. Box ticked. It’s beautiful and scenic, don’t get me wrong. I just prefer my beaches sandy and my swims not Atlantic-level freezing. Such a snob, I know, but your daughter knows what she likes.

One of my highlights was us bombing down the mountain in a wicker toboggan, being pushed by two men in straw hats, somehow sprinting behind us. Shrieking with thrill and delight, while simultaneously wondering whether the brakes were purely decorative. A proper daddy-daughter memory.

You’d all probably say the poncha bar.

For context, if anyone other than my father is reading this, poncha is the local Madeiran “medicine” that apparently cures all ailments. Children’s included.

• 60 ml aguardente de cana (sugar cane rum)

• Fresh lemon juice

• Fresh orange juice

• Honey

Otherwise known as a cocktail where I’m from.

The Kerschbaumers, however, are suckers for a bit of culture.

That didn’t make my top three.

Second place goes to eating sorbet with Mum on the lawn, after I’d braided my hair on the beach, like I did growing up every summer. She’s wonderfully persistent, and when Tannie announces, “Look at that deliciously thick grass. We’re taking our shoes off, sitting in it and grounding ourselves,” you simply comply. Sitting there barefoot, eating sorbet in the sunshine, felt like pure childhood. One of those moments you don’t realise you’ll treasure until you’re already in it.

I suppose a lot of the trip was nostalgia.

Playing cards before dinner. You and Mum sokkie-ing to All Summer Long. Family debates over words sharp enough to cut diamonds. (Yes… mostly you.) Just existing together again.

And honestly, my favourite part of the trip was Dieter. (My brother)

What a legend.

We had plenty of beef growing up, and we probably only connect once a year, but he’s become the coolest, most laid-back bloke. Whenever I think of him, the phrase “water off a duck’s back” comes to mind. Nothing seems to rattle him. What a gift it is to have a brother like that.

What a gift it is to have this family.

Mum’s obviously the coolest tannie in the land. You and I… well, we winding each other up because the phrase “I am my father’s daughter” couldn’t be more accurate. Two stubborn earth signs we are indeed. A couple of legends, nevertheless.

I’m just incredibly grateful.

Grateful for my family.

The house you and mum made a home, that little ol me at nearly 30, still gets to still call her home.

And my friends.

I genuinely don’t know what I did to deserve them, but I must be cool, cos my friends are seriously cool. I feel incredibly lucky to be surrounded by people I adore so much.

I think I’ve figured it out now.

It’s not that I’m not excited to go back to work.

It’s simply the holiday hangover.

That inevitable slap back into reality where you swap home comforts for your chef’s jacket. Kiss goodbye to family dinners, and remember that your life fits inside a suitcase again.

Real talk: I wouldn’t change it for anything.

And, like you always say…

“You’ll get over it.”

Love you,

Leandri x

Writing to you as Dad and I have been able to catch up in person over the last few weeks, but it’s high time I filled you in on your globe-trotting granddaughter.

At the end of every rotation, there’s always a deep sense of relief, followed closely by a quiet pride in having seen it through. An exhale.

After some wild nights seeing off the season in Fort Lauderdale, yours truly whisked herself off to Dallas for some long-overdue family time with Mum’s brother and his family.

You know when you don’t realise how much you need something until you do it, and suddenly it becomes glaringly obvious that you need to do that thing far more often? Well, that’s spending time with the Texan family.

And let me tell you, I committed.

I’m talking full yeehaw. Full cowgirl.

From beef brisket barbecues to riding mechanical bulls. From riding mechanical bulls to standing in farmyards stroking heifers. From stroking heifers to crawfish and country music festivals. And from crawfish and country music festivals to shopping until my little cowgirl heart was content, dolling myself up in rhinestones from head to toe. Cowgirl boots included, obviously.

Next stop: home for a few days.

The excitement and joy I feel going home is unmatched. Mum and Dad obviously raised me right. Naturally I was a massive shit as a teenager, but we got there in the end, at least. They’re literally my favourite people and I adore spending time with them.

They’ve created such a serene environment at the new house, that going home feels almost like checking into a retreat. Just with more wine, better food, fat chats, and the kind of impartial opinions only family can give.

It was only a quick pit stop and a chance to dive into my wardrobe for some outfit changes before I headed off to Barcelona for a cheeky girls’ weekend.

The group was made up of friends I’d brought together who had never met before, which is usually a slightly terrifying prospect, but in this case it worked perfectly.

Dad coined the term “arrival aggression” many years ago. Basically, when you arrive somewhere and get so excited that you go far too big on the first night. You either set a precedent for the rest of the trip or completely overdo it and ruin yourself for the remainder of the holiday.

I can safely say I fell very hard into arrival aggression in Barcelona.

The weekend was filled with filthy gin martinis, rooftop bars and VIP sections in clubs. Not a single wholesome sight was seen, bar a few authentic tapas. Honestly, I’m still kicking myself about it.

Fun, nevertheless.

Moving on swiftly.

I went home for the day, once again to re-wardrobe and find some serotonin in the form of Jonti and Daisy (the dogs), before heading off again. This time: Paris.

I’ve never been a huge fan, to be totally honest. Maybe it was the company I kept there in the past, but I wasn’t expecting much.

Wowie.

I can now safely say I adore Paris.

The secret, apparently, is not to do the romantic sap stuff with somebody else, but to romanticise life and do it alone.

I ate marvellously well in Paris.

A sensational Michelin-starred meal with wine pairings. Steak tartare and quenelle de brochet, followed by the entire dessert trolley at a classic brasserie. A late-night plateau de fruits de mer, shooting back countless oysters and washing sea snails down with a bottle of crisp Sancerre.

Honestly, take my money.

Safe to say your granddaughter has spent enough time in France now over the years, that she’s fully embraced their philosophy of joie de vivre and developed more than a slight reputation as a petite gourmande.

It wasn’t just about the food, though.

At the end of the week, another group of gorgeous girlfriends arrived. You’d think that after already being there a few days, the arrival aggression wouldn’t creep up again, but alas, I really am my father’s daughter.

We had so much fun. I haven’t laughed that hard or been that silly in a very long time. Granted, the brace on my wrist and the bruises on my legs speak for themselves.

You can take the feral fresa out of Central America, but that won’t stop her being the feral fresa she undoubtedly is.

What does Dad always say?

Life’s not a rehearsal.

So, rounding off the last month, I’ve spent the past few days back home in the glorious British sunshine, finally getting some much-needed R&R.

Short-lived, naturally, as I’m writing this on the train to the airport.

Off to Sweden for the highlight of my year. The thing I’m most excited about. Hands down. No question.

The ABBA Museum.

I’ll tell you all about it next time..

How good is life!

Sending all my love,

Your favourite granddaughter,

Leandri xoxox

I’ve got to say, I feel as if I’ve quantum leapt into a new frequency. I’m not sure if it’s the lunchtime tanning or the dips in the ocean (the guests have been heading off for lunches and dinners), but I’m feeling ready for the next chapter that’s about to unfold when I come home.

I must say, I’m beyond excited to see you guys. Six months is a long time. I’m determined to come home with a tan… god forbid anyone thinks I’ve spent all my time in the galley.

On the last trip, it really dawned on me in the Exumas just how different the lives we lead on board are. My four-walled cage, where I maybe go outside every three days, versus the deck crew cruising around in the sunshine, swimming in the bluest oceans you’ve ever seen. The group chat photos really confirmed it for me… I’m living vicariously through them.

I suppose it’s different though. What I do is an obsession and a passion that runs so deep in my veins it consumes me. Do I need to stay caged in my walls like I do? Probably not. But I find myself completely wrapped up in my craft and my perfectionism.

I did get to go outside one day though, to do a braai on a little island called Twin Cays. For the small price of 3k a day you can rent out the island, and it’s set up for a gorgeous beach braai. That was really special. I’m officially Braai Master Kerschbaumer now, might as well get an apron made at this point. All the blue jobs (the braai-ing), all the pink jobs(everything else), I’m just an all rounded purple queen at this point..

Rumination has been a big topic on my mind lately. I spend hours, and I mean hours, by myself in the galley. Sure, people stop in and I have little bursts of interaction, but out of an average 17-hour day, I’m probably 80% in my own head. That leaves a considerable amount of time to ruminate.

I’ve decided that with the in-the-moment things, like a miscommunication between me and the stew or questioning whether a dish is good enough, those are starting to drop. Everyone’s only trying their best, including me. Compassion and kindness trump rumination there.

The position I do find myself a bit stumped in is guest interaction. I feel like we were very much brought up to be seen and not heard, and I project that into my work life. I want the food to speak for itself, and I suppose for me as well. If guests take an interest, I will absolutely get involved. But to impose or insert myself into someone’s half-a-million-euro-a-week holiday is a hard no for me.

I’m a slow burner… that hard exterior needs a good cracking, an ice breaker. In many ways it makes Chef Leandri a total blessing, because people can see the real me through the reels.

Anyway, back to now… it’s been such a lekker day. Guests went off for lunch so I got a beach swim, a pool tan, and a gym sesh in. Dinner service was a success and the guests are happy. We’re all crawling to that finish line of end of season, but the vibes are generally high.

Three words to sum up the season:

Grateful, proud, and perfectionism.

Grateful for the people, places, and opportunities.

Proud of my craft, work ethic, and artistic flare.

Perfectionism… unfortunately not as perfect as it would let on. It’s something I need to work on, it stifles me with negative talk and self-doubt. I’m working on it for next season.

That’s me for now. I can’t wait to see you. Might write once more before I can give you a big squeeze… eeek!!

Love you so much,

Leandri x

This feels like a strange one to write. I’m not even sure I’ve fully self-actualised it yet, or if I’m still circling it, trying to catch the edges of the thought.

I find myself in the most unsympathetic kind of privileged dilemma.

We’re here in Nassau, in the Bahamas, and it feels almost like a fabricated world. Veneered, polished, slightly too pristine. A kind of disnification of luxury. Bright casino lights, artificial architecture, everything curated within an inch of its life.

And I catch myself thinking, who in their right mind would pay to come here?

Maybe that’s unfair. The weather hasn’t been great, and I’m sure that’s tinted my view. But still… I look around and can’t help but think back to sitting in a beach shack in Central America, drinking a two-dollar michelada, watching the sun dissolve into the horizon. That, to me, felt like a divine kind of luxury. Effortless.

Now I’m sat here with a twenty-five dollar margarita under the glowing illusion of Atlantis, and I can’t quite think of anything worse.

Which is where the discomfort sets in.

Because what an absurd position to find oneself in. My job so graciously hands me access to a life that people spend tens of thousands chasing… and I sit here, quietly pulling it apart. Turning my nose up at it. Even writing those words feels indulgent in and of itself.

I walk through these cobbled imitations, under the hum of casino light, and I find myself wondering, what kind of person sees this as the pinnacle? Who is this version of luxury really for?

And then, just as quickly, I have to pull myself back down.

Because it isn’t mine to question.

These are people who have worked for this. People choosing their version of joy, their version of memory-making, their version of escape. And who the hell am I to place judgement on that? To assume mine is more real or worthy.

A dangerous little perch, that high horse.

It only takes a fleeting moment to step off it. A glance exchanged, a passing conversation, something human cutting through all the gloss… and you’re reminded very quickly that none of this is actually about the setting.

And I think that’s the real takeaway I keep returning to.

Thank god we are not all the same.

Thank god not all of us want to sit in a beach shack in Nicaragua, drinking cheap micheladas as the sky turns gold.

And thank god you raised me in a way that finds luxury there. In the simple, and perfectly imperfect. In the places that don’t try so hard to be anything at all.

Because when I strip it all back, that feels like the real privilege.

Not where I am… but the lens through which I get to see it.

Grateful.

Love,

Leandri x

Thought I’d jump on here and give you a little update. We dropped off charter two days ago and are now crossing over to the Bahamas for the last trip of the season. This rotation is flying by.

Coming back from a long stint off and cooking for guests again is always a strange one. There’s that brief flicker of self-doubt.. will I remember how to cook? Will the food be as good? It disappears almost instantly once I’m back in the rhythm of it all.

Safe to say I’m far too critical of myself, especially when it comes to plating. I think I also need to get better at how I talk about my food. That’s the downside of perfectionism, I suppose. Always chasing better, rarely letting something just be good.

I’m trying to meet that with a bit more balance. Be kinder. Be more compassionate. Recognise when something is already brilliant, even if it’s not perfect.

The self-criticism can be exhausting.. but noticing it feels like a decent place to start.

I’ve added a few snaps so you can see what I’ve been cooking. Still very colourful, slightly psychedelic in presentation, probably a bit eccentric. I can’t seem to help myself. I love the drama of it, the movement, the little wow moments on a plate. Subsequently, the nicer side of perfectionism..

Anyway, sending love.

Leandri x

Hey paps,

This has been sat in my notes for a while, and I think it’s finally time to post it.

Guatemala. Wow. What a place, I can hands down say I saved the best for last. I always knew it was on my list and I wanted to go, but truly one of my favourite place on earth. Specifically the Antigua and Lake Atitlan.

I started my time in Guate in Antigua, a truly stunning colonial city surrounded by 3 volcanoes, one of which is still active and you can see the lava bellowing out at night., which in itself is pretty surreal. There’s a strong catholic faith there, with many beautiful churches and apparent the Easter parades are the best on earth. They pave the streets with flowers, so it looks like colourful carpets.. definitely a new item for the bucket list.

I basically spent my time there doing different tours i.e. history and food, and exploring the perfectly walkable sized city/town, and channelling my inner Pilates princess once more, with daily reformer classes.

The cobbled streets are not for the faint of knees.. and certainly not for the faint of roll suitcases.. crickey, that was a mission and a work out..

The feel of the city is very European, with its architecture, jacaranda trees, and historical landmarks. However, the energy from the surrounding volcanoes and Mayan culture just elevates it to a totally new level of wow factor.

After a few days there I headed to Lake Atitlan. Where i fell in love dad. No, not with a man, but rather the lake itself - I know.. phew.

When you arrive in Panachel via the bus you take one of the shuttle boats, and it goes around to all the big stops of the lake and you get off like you would at your bus stop. It’s honestly breath taking. Granted your shoved in to this little boat like sardines and you’re bouncing around, with a sore boney bum afterwards, Captain going full throttle, into the afternoon swell. But its all part and parcel. The views are beyond breath taking. You just feel the magic, its honestly indescribable. After Cape Town it’s definitely my second favourite place on earth (that I’ve experienced so far).

I started in San Pedro, where i was welcomed with open arms into one of the communities there, making friends with some expats. They themselves also loved a boogie, so one night found myself at a techno party. However, in Guatemala it’s illegal to play music past 1am, so note to self, arrive early. Getting there at 10.30.. wasn’t the smartest move; however, the couple hours of dancing i did get in were just what the doctor ordered.

After San Pedro i moved around to the other side of the lake to Santa Cruz and San Marco, splitting my time between 3 separate airbnbs.. the first one wasn’t up to my standard.. considering how terrible the room smelt. The second one had its own private dock to get water taxis to and from and swim in the lake.. absolutely magical. Oh, i also tried my hand at wakeboarding, must say im a bit of a natural, did an hour straight, all by myself, which to my knowledge now, is incredibly unheard of for a beginner.. but what can i say.. just a pro. The third Airbnb overlooked the lake from above it was absolutely breath taking, i could just sit all day and watch the view, which was also the view from the shower.. said it before and I’ll say it again.. magical.

Was lucky enough to do a cooking class with a local Mayan lady in her house, it was such a fabulous experience, seeing how she prepared traditional dishes with local ingredients. She was such a beautiful soul and definitely a highlight in the trip for me. Guatemalan food certainly isn’t all that to rave about, especially considering it boarders Mexico.. safe to say, they’re not big on spice in Guatemala, definitely not a foodie capital of the world.

Other than that, I endulged in the usual, shopping - amazing shopping in Guatemala, mum would love - exploring, chilling and of course partying. One night walking back from a party, a pack of local street dogs walked with me and safely guided me home, granted, barking and virtually attaching any passer by on a bike, which was less than ideal, but very surreal at the same time.

After the lake i went down to the coast - El Paredon. It was alright but realistically Nicaragua and El Salvador both had better beach town. I very much turned into a recluse and just stayed in my bungalow chilling out watch trash tv for the most part. I did however, do a couple of classed of Muay Thai, just to make sure i can still throw a snot klap if i need too.. hehe. The lake was calling again though and that’s where i went back to basically finish my trip.

The last few nights i spent in Guatemala City, just getting my self ready to go back to reality. Also took myself for a sensational 12 course tasting menu with wine pairings. Each course focusing on a different region of Guatemala.. that really was the cherry to end it all.

Am i glad i did it?

Absolutely, wouldn’t change it for anything. It’s crazy how life turns out. If you had told me i would have just finished 8 weeks sole travelling around Central America this time last year, I wouldn’t have believed you for a second. However, I’m beyond grateful for how life is playing out for me. What a gift it is. I think it also takes some serious chutzpah to go out into the world and do an adventure like that on your Larry, so I certainly dont lack in that department. Like you always say life’s not a rehearsal..

In a sense.. amongst the cliches of it all, I suppose you do “find yourself” when you sole travel. You come back to who you are, what makes you happy, not governed or restricted by others, and I think I desperately needed that reset and reality check. While I suppose not much different to my line of work as a sole chef. Except it is totally different. To be in the stillness , you have to be able to sit with who you are, your essence, what makes you magical. No distractions. No compromises. And that is powerful.

Anyway, im back on board now, loving every second we were just in shipyard in Puerto Rico, and now back in St Thomas. So lekker to be back in my galley, cooking again, and surrounded by the most incrdible crew.

Thank you God for my beautiful life. Am i right? Or am i right? Anywho that’s me.

Sending lots of love, give the dogs a squeeze from me.

Leandri xx

Long overdue, I’d say. I’m going to call it what the real writers call: writer’s block.

Let’s talk about El Salvador.

Honestly, I wasn’t overly keen on the idea of going. From my research it felt more expensive and Americanised than other Central American countries. They use the dollar there, and in all honesty, it was pricier. Not Costa Rica pricey, but that’s a hard benchmark to beat.

It’s safe to say I hit a mid-trip slump while I was there. I could have been a lot more active and adventurous, but my body was clearly craving something else.

I started in El Tunco / El Sunzal, a little surf town. My Airbnb was on a hill. I booked it for peace, only to be met with a heroic amount of construction right beside and above the property. Early wake-ups and zero pool time. I went full Karen, complained, and eventually got a decent chunk refunded, so justice prevailed.

I decided it was time to cook for myself again, so I Ubered to the hypermarket. As a chef, nothing brings me more joy than scanning foreign supermarket aisles. You could get a massive tomahawk for $25. Meat was cheap. Music to my ears.

$200 of groceries later, some slightly unnecessary (fish sauce and white wine vinegar, obviously), but it was honestly lovely. Making salads and steaks just for me. Even if portion control still didn’t exist and I was somehow cooking for what felt like a small crew.

I was lucky enough to bump into a familiar face in El Tunco, which meant a gorgeous catch-up… followed by a horrendous hangover the next day. Wowie. Note to self: be careful of the seltzers in El Salvador. I swear they’re legalised ethanol.

Speaking of booze, one day I was minding my own business and somehow got unintentionally cast in an alcohol-free Corona campaign. Cameras suddenly everywhere, and there I was, an accidental extra. That led to meeting a very cool person who ended up being a bit of a tour guide. Showing me the good spots, pointing me toward the right experiences. It’s funny how people appear when you least expect it, and somehow it’s exactly who you needed in that moment. God works in mysterious ways, I suppose.

With all the construction, I was over El Tunco and moved down the coast to Mizata. That was special. Black beaches, almost completely empty during the day. Then sunset would hit and suddenly surfers and local families would flood in to soak up the magic.

I tried blood cockle ceviche on the beach there. Quite possibly the scariest-looking thing I’ve ever eaten, and apparently illegal in the States. But I trusted I’d be fine, and I was. Actually delicious. Very meaty, hearty clam, just much bigger and black… and yes, basically raw.

After a bit of vitamin D and endorphin refuelling, I headed inland to Santa Ana. Absolutely beautiful up there. My hotel room looked straight at one of the volcanoes. In true me fashion, I said I wouldn’t hike it… then did exactly that after meeting some charming guys doing it through the hotel. Rubber arm twisted.

Other than the blood cockles, El Salvador didn’t massively excite my tastebuds. They love a pupusa. Corn or rice flour dough stuffed with cheese, beef, or veg and cooked on a flat top. Easy, moreish snack. Or drunk food.

My final stop was Juayúa, a quaint mountain town with a weekend food market.

Naturally, I did the absolute most and tried everything I could. We’re talking braaied rabbit, sheep chops (not lamb), hen soup, pork chicharrón, pupusas, a chocolate peanut-covered frozen banana, and tamarind cake. Frogs’ legs unfortunately couldn’t be found. Next time.

I know what you’re thinking: “Bloody hell Leandri, could you eat any more?”

But it was all in the name of exploration. And I found the cheat code: “solo carne.” My new favourite market phrase. Saves me from eating (or wasting) carbs and sides so I can try more of what really matters.

And just like that, I wrapped El Salvador with a 4am bus to Antigua, Guatemala. Easy crossing.

Would I go back? Probably not. But maybe one day with a partner or family. I’m really glad I went though. It’s beautiful. It’s safe. And it was worth ticking off the map.

Sending love,

Leandri x

Hey Paps,

Writing to you from the ferry crossing back from Ometepe. It’s a stunning island with two volcanoes, absolutely lush with vegetation and agriculture. So many cows you’d think I was back in India. Truly beautiful.

Last week in San Juan del Sur I went to my first ever baseball game. Very similar vibes to watching cricket, in that it’s mostly just a big piss-up. Nevertheless, very fun. I couldn’t quite understand why no one was really hitting the ball, to which I was told, “the pitchers are just too good.” My Virgo brain struggled with that logic. Surely if you’re a professional baseball player, your number one job is to train to hit a fast ball? But maybe that’s just my thought process.

I also sneakily put some feelers out and ended up on a fishing trip with some of the local lads. Basically became one of the boys in SJDS. One of the boys’ neighbours has a panga, a small fishing boat, so we got ourselves a skipper and cruised around with a line in the water. Did we catch anything? No. But we did have many beers before noon, which I think is what it’s really all about.

We swung past another fishing boat and bought some lobsters and a sea snail, I think. The absolute horror from the lads when I picked up a lobster, ripped its head off, smashed it between my fist and the seat and ate it raw. Not because I’m feral, but because they thought I was going to waste it. I must say, it was bloody delicious.

Anyway, I left San Juan del Sur with a very full heart. So full it was almost heavy. My trip definitely started on a high, a very high high, and now I just need to keep the momentum going.

Ometepe, the volcanic island, was beautiful, though I don’t think I saw it at its best. Very windy and overcast. Did I hike the volcano, I hear you ask? No, I absolutely did not. Eight hours in mud and rain to view a cloud at the top… we both know that wouldn’t sit well with me. I’ve left family holidays early for less. Also, if I’m being completely honest, I left my trainers on the boat. Woopsie.

I stayed in a cabin built by the owners’ own hands, very open and rustic, thank goodness for mosquito nets. I spent my days driving around on my little scooter, exploring different parts of the island. I even got a kayaking session in, which was very cool, very Indiana Jones meets Shrek. Saw a caiman too. Luckily he wasn’t overly bothered by me, unlike the bloody mosquitos who found me extremely delicious.

The food wasn’t really anything to cry over. Lots of fried whole fish, rice and plantain. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a fan, but sometimes you need a day off. So I told myself when I got to Granada I was taking myself out for a proper tasting menu, because I deserve it, and we all know I never deny myself a little treat. Wine pairings and all, full send.

Now for some confusion, because as I’m writing this, I’m actually in León. Let’s talk about Granada to make it even more confusing.

When I arrived in Granada I went for cheap accommodation, similar to Ometepe, very open, very bug-friendly, no air-con, which is all fine… but the bathroom was basically shared and I couldn’t even stand up in it. After being awake for far too many hours listening to roosters on Ometepe, I decided, sod this, and took the boujee bullet. Booked myself a nice private room with an en suite on the other side of town, hopped in a taxi and off I went.

The tasting menu was nice. Definitely made me appreciate how good I am at what I do, but nice. Worth it.

We both know it’s no surprise when I say I’m a fresa - what they consider a snobby princess here - but this trip has really cemented that. However, it’s made me also come to the solid conclusion - I’m not just a fresa. I’m a feral fresa. I want the best of both worlds. I went to this tree house party on the Friday, proper jungle rave, dancing, sweating and grimy until 3am. Then the heavens opened and it started raining like I haven’t experienced in a while. So what did we do? We danced in the rain.

Bear in mind this tree house was a hike up the side of a mountain. Coming down in slippery mud, in the dark, after the jol, was not for the faint of heart. And exactly where my feral side takes over my fresa, I only had to stop and be helped a handful of times by charming passing gentlemen.

The rest of my time in Granada was honestly a write-off in the best way. Pool, bed, repeat. Sometimes it’s needed. Granada was pleasant enough, just not exactly stealing my heart.

Now, as I sit in León writing this, I can safely say León is even less inspiring. Pretty excited to leave tomorrow. I did go volcano boarding today though. That was an experience. We hiked up an inactive volcano in crazy winds and rain, honestly thought I might blow away at one point. At the top they put us in these yellow boiler suits, full hazmat chic, like I’d wandered onto the wrong film set, and we boarded down the side of the volcano on our bums. Proper black run, it was so steep. Thank goodness for the goggles and scarf, because when I stood up at the bottom I was a brand new shade of volcanic.

I was supposed to be getting a ferry to El Salvador tomorrow, but all have been cancelled for a few days due to bad weather. So this little fresa is flying. Not ideal, as I think my bag is overweight, but I suppose that’s what big smiles and terrible Spanish are for.

Nicaragua truly has been magical and I’ll hold it in the highest regard. Definitely in my top seven countries I’ve ever been to. I’ve had the most fun, done the coolest things, and the people are so awesome. Major tick from me. Very happy I came.

Anyway, I’ll write to you from El Salvador. Thinking I might put myself on a bit of a diet while I’m there, maybe even try a little fast. We’ll see how that goes.

Love you lots,

Leandri x

I know this newsletter usually starts as a letter to Dad, but today I’m changing things up, because you are subscribed, and I want you to know something very important.

Going to visit you in Eutin (Germany), last summer was the highlight of my 2025. Truly. You are the most beautiful woman I know, other than Mum, and the definition of class and grace. I can only hope that one day I carry myself through the world with even half the elegance you do.

So, Oma… I finished up in the Caribbean. The last charter was nothing like the first. Much more parties, very different energy, and with only a 24-hour turnaround on land, it definitely threw the crew. It was a hard one, but the guests were still lovely. I rang in the New Year eating grapes under the table, manifesting love this year, no more “life lessons” please, thank you very much. I’m sure Dad has filled you in.

When it all ended, it felt strangely flat. Cortisol, adrenaline, endorphins… all gone. So naturally, I dealt with that in the most mature way possible and went out partying, ending up on another crews boat singing ABBA karaoke until 4:30 in the morning. Still made it to work at 7am though. Strong German work ethic, clearly.

I had a massive day ahead, deep cleaning the galley for my rotational chef partner, packing up my whole life, and cleaning my cabin. Overwhelmed doesn’t quite cover it. So I ordered crew takeout to avoid destroying the galley again. It was raining so hard that the puddle between the restaurant and the port had basically become a lake. Picture this: me, in socks and Birkenstocks (as per German heritage uniform), umbrella in one hand, a box of eleven burgers, fries and nuggets in the other, absolutely refusing to get my socks wet. I decided to wait until someone drove in. And right on cue, “Ronny from Trinidad” pulled in. With a cheeky smile and a polite request, he drove me straight to the boat, saving both my socks and my dignity.

Now I’m in Nicaragua, in a small surf town, staying in a beautiful Airbnb on top of a hill with the most incredible view. I’ve gone from a tiny bunk bed cabin to a whole eagle’s-nest apartment where I can swan around like I own the place. My fridge is full of papaya, watermelon, guacamole ingredients (sometimes I swap the avocado for cabbage, don’t ask), a bottle of vodka, and a face ice pack in the freezer. Balance.

I’ve decided to make surfing my personality this trip. I’ve been three times now. The second time I was so good, I briefly considered retiring from cheffing and joining the pro surf circuit. The third lesson humbled me immediately. Board to the head, zero finesse, zero flair. I blame the fact that I was too well rested. I slept 14 hours the night before, and after months of burning the candle at both ends, my body clearly didn’t know what to do with that level of wellness.

But honestly, I’m having the best time. I’ve made friends with local surfers and they’ve been showing me the real Nicaragua. Best restaurants, best bars, best views, best waves. And they have delivered. It’s such a special place. I loved Costa Rica when I visited Auntie Gaia and Yoshi, but this feels less Americanised, more raw, more soul, more magic.

Today I went on a road trip up the coast with a group of local surfers. Woke up at 5am in a terrible mood, but it turned into the most beautiful day. Their outlook on life, the stillness between waves, the way they truly enjoy each moment… it’s something special, something that should be studied. We laughed, did stupid things, and didn’t take anything too seriously. It reminded me how easy it is to forget how to just be in normal life.

Tomorrow I think I’m going ziplining, and on Friday I’ve very sneakily managed to organise a fishing trip with some locals and a boat. I’m ridiculously excited about that.

Long story short, Oma, I’m having the most magical time, and I am always thinking of you and your younger years, especially when you showed me your diaries and told me stories about your travels through the Middle East. Adventures that feel like pure legend now, and that I carry with me as inspiration.

Just know that I’m thinking of you, and I love you very dearly.

Lots of love,

Leandri x

Some photos of my food.. and life..

We’ve just dropped off the first charter and we’re heading to St Maarten to pick up the next one in 48 hours.

I’m sat on the sun deck writing this - I haven’t really been outside in about a week, so it’s nice to finally get some sun on my face.

What a Christmas. Wow. The guests were awesome, and I can safely say it was a career highlight for me. The food, the flow, the feedback. Your daughter’s a weapon - a term far too many people have been using to describe me lately.

On Boxing Day I started at 5:30am and finished at 12:30am. No break. Just straight grind. I’d say I averaged 17-hour days. My hours of rest will absolutely be a lie… but the way I see it, no one was forcing me. It was all my own free will.

Myself and the walk-in freezer have become very well acquainted. I spent a lot of time standing in there cooling off, and annoying the engineer with the alarm.. the light in there isn’t automatic. Oopsies.. I’ve basically turned into a sweaty gremlin creature, and it’s only been a week. My hands are beyond cut up and sore from washing up constantly and packing away too fast. Not to mention the burns, calluses, and carpal tunnel.

And yet - I just love it. How lucky am I to have this obsession, this passion. The buzz and energy of a good service… I can’t explain it or liken it to anything else. It’s pure exhilaration. That final service yesterday, felt like finally crossing the finish line after sprinting a marathon. Today I almost feel numb - the excitement, the buzz - I think the joy is in doing the thing, and now my body’s just catching up.

For context: we had 12 guests and 11 crew, including me. That’s guest breakfast, crew lunch, guest lunch, crew dinner, kids’ dinner, adults’ dinner - six meals a day for 23 people. Basically nonstop, churning food out on repeat. I’m obsessed with efficiency and flow, and everything I do is to maximise outcomes. And let me tell you - it’s working. I think I’ve got it down.

For Christmas dinner I cooked a whole suckling pig. It was absolutely sensational. And you know this - it would’ve been ridiculous not to speak to my own father on Christmas. As I said, a 2025 highlight… to which Mum replied, “Seriously, cooking a pig?”

If you’re reading this too - yes, Mother. Cooking a pig.

2025 wasn’t really the best year. It’s time to close the chapter and move on. Luckily, brilliance blossoms from hardship, and I’m ending the year exactly where I want to be. I couldn’t ask for anything more.

The crew have been incredible to work with - everyone’s such a laugh and a vibe, and there’s never a dull moment. This job is not for the faint of heart. Safe to say, if it were easy, everyone would do it. It’s the kind of thing that separates the pack, you know?

Sorry, not sorry - I’m going to say it. Sole chef on a yacht over 50m is the hardest job in the industry. Absolute weapon.

Anywho - that’s me. I won’t be writing again until next year.

2026 is my year, Dad.

Love you x

Check out some of the food..

Sorry - long overdue update. Hope you’re ready for it. Never a dull moment in yachting.

We arrived into Sint Maarten last Friday, and honestly, the Caribbean really doesn’t disappoint with its island-life vibes. Granted, I’d never actively pay to holiday here, but when it’s part of the job package, you’d be mad not to make the most of it.

I cannot tell you how unbelievably satisfying it is to step on land after crossing an ocean. This was my fourth crossing, and while unbelievably mundane, it still feels like a fabulous victory - and a story to tell the grandkids one day. At one point, in true me fashion, I was belting ABBA at the top of my lungs, dancing around the sun deck like an absolute tit, desperately hoping no one was watching the cameras. Those final days really do have the power to make you clinically insane.

Now - remember how I said the fridges were looking slim? Well Dad, let me tell you, I absolutely nailed it. No one went hungry and everyone was very stoked with the food. We docked with three leeks and ten lemons left in the fridge. Perfect. Ready for a deep clean and a full restock.

My first port of call was straight to the shops -

actually, tell a lie - it was the crew bar while waiting for a taxi. Naturally, that meant a cheeky pre-provision spicy marg to cheers the triumph of crossing the pond. First bevvy in 12 days… and we all know I like a bevvy.

The wild thing about Sint Maarten is that the supermarkets have better produce than most of the Med, which - as a chef provisioning - makes me very happy. Six trolleys of shopping on the boat card later… bliss. The produce selection may be vast, but so are the import costs.

We had the weekend off, and it’s safe to say we made the most of it. Full send - Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Gorgeous beach clubs, drinks flowing, Afro-house DJs… I was fully channelling my ultimate Dancing Queen archetype. As they say in Cape Town, I truly “skit my biscuit”.

I’d argue SXM is my favourite Caribbean island I’ve been to. It’s the perfect balance of rough-and-ready mixed with boujee and wildly overpriced. I also accidentally (“accidentally”) spent an absurd amount of money on two and a half bikinis on Saturday - oops. I won’t say how much for fear of judgement. Rainbow Café beach club know exactly what they’re doing putting a boutique above the restaurant. Girl maths though: didn’t spend a cent the entire crossing, and they’re locally made and really, really nice. Justified?

I also went to my first strip club on Friday night, which is wild considering I’ve been in yachting for seven years. For some reason yacht crew love ending nights in strip clubs - guys and girlies alike. Honestly though, watching the women dance is wildly entertaining. You can’t not stare.

One of the absolute best things about being here is going to the beach on my lunch break. Swimming in warm turquoise water. Sitting on white sand. Sun beaming down. A perfect ambient 27°C. That really is a gorgeous, gorgeous perk of the job.

We were dead ship for two days while welders came onboard for maintenance - meaning the boat was completely off. No water, no AC, no electricity, nothing. Lots of takeaway meals and a whole lot of hurry-up-and-wait. So I was very thrilled to finally get back into the galley.

Random observation, but yachties in the Caribbean are way friendlier than yachties in the Med - which makes zero sense considering it’s the same boats. Must be the island life loosening everyone up a bit. That said, some crews are definitely friendlier than others. The worst is being docked next to a boat where everyone looks like they have a stick up their bum. Being too cool to say hello makes you very uncool.

I was genuinely sad to leave Sint Maarten and head to St Thomas. Not to be mean, but I really do think it’s the toilet of America. However, plot twist, I’ve been pleasantly surprised. We had the day off yesterday and, of course, it turned into beach, booze, and more biscuit-skitting.

I ended the day grabbing food with some locals I met at a sunset pool party up the mountain. Best Cuban sandwich of my life - eaten in the ghetto, surrounded by pimps and prostitutes - they call them “pros”, I’m so bloody oblivious, they basically had to spell it out for me. Quite the experience. Don’t worry though, I still have both kidneys.

So yes, St Thomas surprised me. Maybe it’s not that bad after all. I suppose life really is what you make it. Last time I was here (February) it was during that horrendous two-month boss trip… trauma may have clouded my judgement. Realistically though it is just a giant cruise terminal.

Anyway, we’re finally picking up this week, so everyone’s getting the boat ready and I’m prepping like mad to get ahead of the chaos. It’s going to be hectic. I keep telling myself I’m excited, not nervous… we’ll see how that goes.

Sending love,

Leandri x

Hey Paps,

Woowiiie - I think we’re about halfway now. Feels like we’ve been at sea for months. Cabin fever is kicking in, so we’re trying to keep ourselves as busy as possible… without booze or streaming. Yet to take up reading; the girls were trying to persuade me today. Maybe I’ll give it a bash this week.

We are having such a laugh though. One of the girls and I painted each other the other night, listening to noughties girl pop. I haven’t laughed like that in ages. Turns out I’m actually quite the artist. Obviously take after Mum..

Yesterday I decided it was finally time to put the pizza oven in the galley to proper use, instead of just “brand”-ing (burning) meat and veg in there. I’d made a preferment dough five days before, to get that sexy crust flavour going. Honestly, I think I’m getting pretty good at this whole pizza malarkey.

I cooked off the bases and let the crew do their own toppings. Never again. Free rein resulted in what can only be described as pizza mounds - I’ve never seen so much bloody cheese on a pizza in my life. Obviously makes it wetter and impossible to cook properly. Let’s leave it to the professionals, ey?

But I do love it. I’m constantly staying busy in the galley - baking them cakes and cookies, giving them sexy elaborate meals, putting on fun nights like pizza night or the cheese and wine night. I even have people in my inbox on instagram saying “the crew is so lucky to have you” and “it’s nice to see a chef who cares.” Which to me is totally wild. I’m the lucky one.

I get to wake up every day and mess around doing what I love. The excitement, the joy, the passion - I just bloody love it. Even when I think I’m over it, it surprises me how much I never will be. Cooking for people, hosting for people, making someone’s day with food… it really is my love language. Naturally while claiming it’s not my best work and waiting for compliments. - but honestly even that I’m growing out of. You’ll be proud of me, I’m giving myself permission to be brilliant, and dropping the perfectionism, because that shit does not serve me anymore. I’m just in such a flow when I’m in my galley. She’s not perfect, and I’m still figuring her out for charters, but my goodness, I’m happy to be here. To have a passion like mine really is such a blessing. I am a foodie and always will be - you and Mum are always right.

I do have a good giggle to myself everytime I make something beige for the boys, because we all know I’m not a beige girly, and I never will be.. but, got to keep everyone happy! Not a single compliment from a few of them, till the other day when I made a cottage pie.. can you bloody believe it? Don’t think I’ve had one of those since school dinners, let alone made one - apparently gives one of the boys’ mums a run for her money.. I’ll take that compliment, thank you.

Today we did the Neptune initiations for the “pollywogs” who’ve never done an Atlantic crossing. And yes, technically it’s for equator crossings, but yachties have kind of… adopted it. We’re stuck on a boat for 11 days; we need entertainment.

Three of the crew got initiated. I did mine five years ago - still have the certificate to prove it, thank you very much. Since we’ve been underway, the boys have been finding flying fish on deck and collecting them. On their 5am watch last night, they made dead flying fish necklaces for the pollywogs. The smell was something else, my word.

The whole crew had roles. Captain dressed up as Neptune, gave a speech, blessed them with their necklaces, then cracked some eggs on them - sensational. We had slop buckets with flour mixed in to pour over them. I made pie cases and filled them with cream and sprinkles, so we could pie them. I have to say - throwing a pie in someone’s face is satisfying. It was possibly the most entertaining thing I’ve done all year. I was howling, I think ive honestly unlocked a new laugh in me. At the end they got their certificates and a good hosing down, looking dishevelled and traumatised.

It’s just such a fabulous crew - everyone willing to get involved, have fun, not take things too seriously when they don’t need to be.

I must say, between us, my fridge is looking a bit slim. Might be going full carnivore diet these last few days. The freezer is fine, still stocked healthily with meat, but the fresh veg situation is… let’s say “creative”. Definitely going to be some weird and wonderful concoctions coming out of the galley soon. Very Ready Steady Cook vibes. What can I do with a head of celery and a packet of Boursin, you ask? Bloody miracles, me.

Otherwise, in true Leandri fashion, I kicked a dumbbell the other night. Same foot as always. It’s been incredibly blue and I’ve been hobbling around, but I don’t think it’s broken. And don’t worry.. the kettlebell’s fine.

Things are starting to get a bit more serious now. We’ve had to divert south because there’s a big swell/storm in the Atlantic. As I’m writing this, the swell is picking up significantly and we’re rolling more. More safety precautions outside and all that. Hopefully the sun still comes to play. We need our arrival Caribbean tans, to match our arrival spicy margs. Can’t bloody wait.

Also side note, watched “The Gentlemen” today.. brilliant film - only one that was downloaded on the guest tv..

Anyway. Have attached some piccies below

Sending all my love.

Give Mum and the doggos a hug from me.

Leandri x

There’s a strange, beautiful serenity that comes with being out in the middle of the open ocean. Yes, it can be petrifying, but it also holds a kind of ease and tranquillity I’ve only ever felt on land in the Karoo at night, staring up at the stars.

The sunrises and sunsets out here are something else entirely - a spectrum of blues that don’t exist in daily life. It really is a kind of magic, and I’m incredibly grateful to have experienced it as often as I have.

I think Mum’s always been right: life is what you make it. Being able to stop for even a second and find the joy, the peace, the gratitude - that’s the real gift. Anyone can be happy in the big, shiny moments, but the happiest people are the ones who learn to find joy in the ordinary.

To the average person with a desk job, crossing an ocean probably sounds wildly exciting. In reality, in yachting, it’s a time to be still. Mid-season with guests on, everything is manic, but during a crossing the crew settle into their watches, do the bare-minimum jobs, and rest. No alcohol is allowed underway because of the watch schedule, so everyone gets a bit of a liver cleanse too.

Even me - I don’t do watches, which is quite nice, the idea of sitting in the bridge for 4 hours staring out the window isn’t really my cup of tea. I just do my daily crew cooking, but I like to keep myself busy. I’m having the most fun getting to know my galley. It’s almost like a dance, learning how she flows with me. Maybe not a waltz… I think I’m more of a cha-cha girly.

My daily routine goes something like this:

7:00 Wake up

7:30 Coffee & menu planning for future trips

8:00 Sneak a sunrise moment

8:30 Cooking, baking, organising

12:00 Serve lunch

12:30 Workout

13:30 Tan

15:00 Back in the galley to make dinner

18:00 Dinner

18:30 Another workout

19:00 “Sundowners” - no booze

19:30 Shower

20:00 Movie in the main salon or bed

There’s a very specific rhythm to it - mundane in a comforting way. When the weather’s good, it’s gorgeous. When it isn’t… that’s a different story.

Head-on swell is a constant thud, thud, thud. Side-on swell feels like being inside a washing machine - wildly nauseating - and you pray you took your sea-sickness tablet in time.

When we left Gibraltar, the weather wasn’t great. We found a window and took it. I think it’s fair to say my body had a little “girl’s blouse” moment - I was severely seasick. I blame the smell of the cheese toasties I was making for crew. When the weather’s bad you have to keep it simple for them… but unfortunately for me, that smell wiped me out for the whole afternoon. And the swell wasn’t even that big.

BUT - I’m officially saying I’ve got my sea legs now. I’m claiming them for the rest of the trip.

Anyway, I’m writing this from Tenerife. We’re stuck here for a few days waiting for our next window for the big, final leg to Sint Maarten. Tomorrow is even a day off, which I fully intend to use - after I make some fridge food for the crew, naturally. I’ll let you know if we get up to anything worth writing home about, beyond shopping, tapas, and wine… though honestly, even that sounds bloody lovely.

Sending love,

Leandri x

A very sea sick girly 😂😂 ⬇️⬇️

I know I haven’t written in a while. I get so wrapped up in the rhythm of boat life that everything starts to feel strangely normal - even the wild parts. I catch myself thinking, “There’s nothing to write about,” even when the day has been completely absurd.

Last weekend was a perfect example.

The Palma Search & Rescue team radioed the captain asking if we’d join a training drill as we happened to be passing by. I didn’t think anything of it - my brain was on food, menus, and my little routine, as always.

Later I ended up on the sundeck just as the whispers started: the helicopter was on its way. Except, for 45 minutes, they ran the entire drill on a boat about 100 metres off our starboard side. We all stood watching them do this dramatic rescue display on the wrong boat.. not really though they were merely practising there drill multiple times, on multiple boats.. well the two of us. Naturally and theatrically however, we spent those 45 minutes thinking they’d completely forgotten about us, or severely screwed up there pass rate on the drill.

Eventually the whup-whup-whup  came over to us.

And honestly - I’ve never seen anything like it. I’m not someone who usually gets excited about drills; I know full well I’d be completely useless in a real emergency, and I’ve accepted that wholeheartedly. But this was different. It was like watching a full production - precise, slick, almost theatrical. I’ll send you the video; you’ll love it. Was basically a night of dinner and a show. Plus gloating to other yachties, who could only dream of the chance.

The captain has been doing an incredible job avoiding the worst of the swell. I’ve really grown to like him. He’s from Cambridge and still can’t believe I didn’t go to private school.. which amuses me endlessly. But there’s a calmness about him. I feel safe with him in charge; he’d never risk us unnecessarily. And though I suspect he’d be great fun after a glass or two of wine, he keeps a respectful distance from the crew - he’s a man of quiet morals. But. On a good day, I know I can persuade him for a glass of wine and a Yap.

As for the crew, I wrote something down to remember to tell you:

One of the best things about yachting is how quickly people become your people. You join a boat, and almost instantly you’re welcomed in - no filters, no pretence. It’s not like moving to Bordeaux or Cape Town where it takes months just to find a rhythm with new people. Here, everyone wants you to fit, and when you do, it feels effortless. Maybe it’s fake; but I think if you’re (me) giving of authentic energy, it’s hard to get bs back.

This past weekend I kept finding myself drifting between different groups onboard; little enclaves of crew, and every single one was warm, open, and happy to have me there. It’s rare in the ‘real world’, this sense of belonging. I’m grateful for it every day.

And then came this weekend - a different kind of chaos.

It was a heavy one, tense and uncertain. We waited days for a good weather window to cross the Strait of Gibraltar.

Eventually, one opened.

Which meant… my traditional sprint to Morrisons.

Every boat I’ve crossed with I’ve done the same thing: the moment we start bunkering, I run off to Morrisons to enter that strange portal known as “Little England,” even though I’m technically still in Gibraltar. I mainly go for the back bacon, because the Brits onboard (any yacht, not just this one) absolutely live for it. The pressure is bizarre - I’m terrified to bake it in the oven in case I commit some kind of bacon-related crime. So the pan it is. On nothing.

It’s always surreal.. provisioning for my crew in Spain, in England, for a boat that will soon be in the Atlantic. I grab sausage rolls and other British staples, and every time I walk out thinking, “That was the strangest shopping experience of my life.”

Outside the Strait, the swell has been rough. Between 3 and 6 metres for weeks now.

But tomorrow morning at 8am, we’re taking our window to Tenerife. With any luck, we’ll get 24 hours there, because when I went shopping today for a big restock, there was basically nothing in the shops. I am entering the Atlantic with optimism, mild delusion, and a handful of limp vegetables.

But even so, I feel strangely calm.

The captain won’t move unless we’re genuinely safe. He is diligent to the core.

In *** we trust.

The Atlantic looks foul, and yes, technically we’re chasing the charter timeline…

but I genuinely believe timing is always on our side.

I’ll write again once we’re tied up in Tenerife.

Wish me luck.. I get the worst sea sickness.

Love you always,

Leandri x

If you got to witness what a €15k shelving unit looks like, you would laugh in my face and tell me I’m lying. It’s honestly a beautiful mockery of expense, time, and stress levels.

But in all of the chaos, it’s finally starting to come together. And luckily for them, the weather is terrible across Europe and the Atlantic. With 4m swell, we are most certainly not crossing. So it gives us time for the “for me, it’s okay” jobs to be slightly less botched. Even better, it gives me some time to tediously set up my galley closer to how I want it.

I personally despise dead space - especially in such a tiny area - so I’m most certainly maximising every inch I’ve got. While still provisioning, cooking, accounts and cleaning. All the joys of sole cheffing.

In all seriousness though, tonight while working out, I came to the realisation that I’m exactly where I want and need to be. Which sounds silly, considering I want more fridge space, a kitchen island, and better storage. But honestly, for the first time in my life, I want for nothing more than this. I’m confident in saying this is an amazing crew, an awesome programme, and by the sounds of it, wonderful owners. So this is exactly it - and I’m totally grateful. That in itself is delicious. I’m focusing on me, my career, and what I want for the first time in my life. And for the other things… well, I do love a challenge. As they say… for me, it’s okay.

So no movements now until the 10th - maybe longer - we’re patiently waiting for a window. Until then: more organising, enjoying the crew, and most importantly - Italian wine.

Cheers from La Spezia x