One in a series of Mystery Skipper columns for Custom Yachting.

I first met Jim Robinson when he was varnishing the rails of the splendid motor yacht Christendom, at the time because he was wearing a crew shirt working on deck I assumed that he like me was the Captain of the large super yacht and that he was keeping his hand in and showing his crew he was not above menial jobs. I have to say I got a little suspicious when I saw a stewardess come out at around 11am with a coffee and a copy of the New York Times on a silver tray but I filed it away for a future discussion with my own chief stew when I would suggest I as Captain got treated in a similar fashion. Jim and I got talking across the rails as we Captains tend to do and during the conversation I invited him aboard the yacht I was commanding at the time for drinks that evening and he accepted. It was while we were yarning away on deck that warm Caribbean evening that I learned that Jim was in fact not the Captain but the owner. Despite my shocking breach of crew etiquette of placing crew on the same level as owners he and I got on famously and when ever we spotted each other around the boat shows we would stop and chat and he would ask what I was doing. It was at one such meeting when having told him I was job hunting he offered be the command of Christendom III. To refuse such a yacht from such a caring owner would have been foolhardy and I accepted on the spot.

I joined the new building yacht in Holland a month or so before she was handed over to the owner’s crew and set about organising everything that needs to be done to get a new yacht to sea, amongst these tasks was to approve the uniform purchase order prepared for me by the chief steward. Now it is quite usual to have crew shirts spare to place in the cabins of the owners and guests who like to feel they belong to the yacht but it is another thing to give an owner a full crew uniform outfit. “Why does he want foul weather gear or working shirts and trousers?” I asked.
“He has to have every thing the crew has” said the Chief Steward, “otherwise he throws a strop!”
“OK” I said, not wanting to upset my new boss as I signed the order form.
It was only later I learned how much Jim enjoyed being part of his crew, for him it was an essential part of being an owner and whilst he should no inclination towards getting his professional qualifications he liked to do everything on board that the crew did. He unlike many owners used to join us for the long sea passages between the cruising areas we used to frequent and when we sailed he always asked what watch he was on and liked the rest of the crew moaned when he did not get the watch he wanted. When we got to our destination he was out on deck with the rest of the crowd hosing down the superstructure to get rid of the salt. In fact there was little Jim did not like to do with his crew which made him a very popular boss indeed and greatly slashed crew turnover rates and reduced my crew recruitment budget requirements.

On one occasion the yacht was alongside the dock in Florida having sailed in from Bermuda, on passage we had had some problems with the shell side doors and this entailed changing the huge rubber seals. I turned the crew to after breakfast and what had at first seemed a simple job dragged on into the heat of the mid day sun. Needless to say Jim was in the thick of it and whilst he never interfered with my instructions as Captain he never the less had an air around him that exuded power and if he suggested anything that we should try we seldom argued. Often he was right, he had not after all earned the millions it requires to own and run a yacht of this size by being stupid. So there we were struggling to fit a seal to a huge door in the side of the yacht, sweat pouring off our brows our eyes shielded from the sun by our crew caps when a large car drew up and an even larger American gentlemen got out. He was wearing Hawaiian garishly printed shorts and a matching shirt which despite being extra large enormous was still loosing the battle to contain the belly that lay behind the buttons. He strode up to Jim and addressed him with a drawl, “say son can you go get your owner and tell him Hank is here”
“Hank who?” said Jim.
“Hank Carver from Texas,” said extra large.
“Does he know you?” queried Jim.
“Sure does,” said Hank.
“Well I will go and see,” said Jim and he walked off into the yacht through the open shell door. He went to the saloon and poured himself a soft drink with plenty of ice and I saw him move from there to the bridge where he picked up the binoculars and studied the corpulent form on the dock that that was by now wiping copious amounts sweat from his brow.
My personal VHF radio set crackled and the boss said, “Willey is he sure he knows the owner?”
“Wait one,” I said and then repeated the question to Mr Carver.
“Sure I do,” he said, “we are good buddies!”
There was a snort over the radio when I repeated the answer back to Jim but it was good twenty minutes before Jim came back to join the crew. By this time Mr Carver had lost several pounds of body weight sweating under the sun but his tailor would never notice such an inconsequential loss.
“The owner does not want to see you,” said Jim and the crew began to snigger and hide their faces.
“That so?” Said Carver.
“Yes it is,” said Jim, “in fact he says he has never heard of you!”
“Has so!” spluttered Hank who was beginning to turn an even brighter red in front of the crew who now suspected he was lying
“Well if you are really sure you are his big buddy why not leave me your card and I will see he gets it next time he comes on board,” said Jim
Hank gave him his card, which declared his profession and the company he worked for and strode off back to his car.
“Are you sure you do not know him boss?” I asked
“Of course I know him, that fat fool was the greatest bully at school and I am so glad he only made it to brush salesman!” he said throwing down the card and walking back to his multi million-dollar yacht.