The Chief Stew Who Sparked My First Yachting Romance.

12/12/2024

Written by Ben Willoughby An ode to a love in La Ciotat

She was my muse, the light in an industry that felt as vast and uncharted as the ocean itself. She brought warmth and meaning to a new and challenging world, which I had just stepped into, guiding me like the North Star through the complexities of yachting. That summer was a dream—a summer of poetry, passion, and discovery.

I’d never dated an older woman before, but she was elegant in my eyes, a vision of experience and grace wrapped in a wild, untamed spirit. She was eleven years older, yet somehow our differences only deepened our connection. I think more younger men should date older women—they bring a depth and confidence that’s impossible to ignore.

We spent many evenings after work together in the South of France, lost in each other’s company and in our shared love for writing. It was a writer’s romance, one where words wove themselves into the very fabric of our connection. We wrote about each other, for each other, and through each other, creating a tapestry of emotions and meaning that felt both timeless and fleeting.

There’s a magic to the South of France—something about the Mediterranean breeze, the laughter echoing from cobblestone streets of yachties gone wild, and the way the stars seem closer than anywhere else. For us, it was the perfect backdrop to our whirlwind romance.

We spent countless nights drunk under those stars, chasing each other along the La Ciotat shoreline. The alcohol and the setting of a European summer added an intoxicating elixir to our chemistry. She was my first yacht romance, and I still think about that summer.

One night stands out in particular—the night we met. I offered to walk her home. It was an hour-long journey, but the gentleman in me wouldn’t have had it any other way. For anyone familiar with the bars in La Ciotat, you’ll know the distance from the bars to the end of the esplanade is no small feat. But I didn’t care. I’d have walked twice as far just to spend more time with her wild soul.

She was warm and gentle, someone I could hold and be vulnerable with after the tensions of a long, demanding day in the yachting world. She had seen the years of the industry take their toll on many crew members, and you could see it in the long lines etched into her eyes. Yet, she was still full of life. She was a wild soul who could light up every bar she entered. Some people didn’t take to her, but that was her magic—her way of saying, “This is me; take it or leave it.” She wore her heart on her sleeve, unapologetically herself.

The sexual chemistry between us was electric, a spark straight from the heavens. We would often find ourselves tangled up across the shipyard, surrounded by spectacular views. It wasn’t luxury, but it was romantic as hell. Two muses for the summer, it felt like we were living out a scene from a movie.

She became my safe harbour, a place where I could let my guard down, even if just for a little while. She taught me about the industry in ways no training manual ever could. She showed me how to embrace the chaos, find beauty in imperfection, and stay grounded amidst the ever-changing tides of life onboard.

Our love was intertwined in words and the meanings behind them. We would sit on the dock late into the night, sharing snippets of poetry and prose. She had a way with words that could paint entire worlds, and I often found myself in awe of her talent.

Years later, I can still hear her voice in the back of my mind, encouraging me to put pen to paper, to pour my soul onto the page. She wasn’t just my first yacht romance—she was a beautiful chapter in my life.

I still remember the night I offered to walk her home, and she introduced herself with a smile, saying,

“Hi, I’m Tiff.”

Always,

Ben