After that night, with only a few days until my flatmate's debts were due to be paid back to the police, I decided it was time to leave. It was an easy decision to make, especially because my fifteen English friends were still in jail with no chance of even seeing a judge. (They'd been there for three months by this stage.) This place was not a place where you wanted to get into trouble. My flatmate decided to come with me. After living in Tenerife for four months, we hitched a ride with friends on a catamaran heading for Portugal. Ten days later, we found ourselves in the Algarve in southern Portugal. I was funding both myself and my friend, who kept promising she would pay me back, but never did. In the Algarve we came across some fellow backpackers who had just returned from the south of France. They had been working on yachts for the rich and famous and their stories convinced me this seemed like the direction to head in, so I packed my bags and headed back to France, alone.
So, I'm in Antibes, France, with $40 to my name, no ticket home and $2000 in credit card debt. (I had cashed in my return airline ticket months ago.) Yet, interestingly, I wasn't the slightest bit concerned. Was it the arrogance of youth or perhaps that I knew I would figure it out? I'm not sure – but I do know, if it was today, I would be having heart palpitations. But in 1985, I just knew all would be fine.
The south of France was magical, complete with cobblestone lanes and old men playing boules in the parks. Restaurants and cafes spilt out onto the streets and dogs sat at tables like people, eating off china plates. The quays were full of large white palace-like boats. I was off on another adventure.
At the local pub, an Englishman informed me there was a job on a boat called the Deneb Star, based in Villefranche-sur-Mer, near the border with Italy and a 20-minute train ride from Antibes. After a couple of phone calls (from a pay phone), I got an interview. I was wearing the only nice outfit I had, which just happened to be a woollen jacket with a matching woollen mini skirt. It was summer and 30 °C. Unbeknown to me, the train that I hopped on was an express train to Italy (and remember – this was before the days of the EU). With no passport and no fluency in Italian, I had to convince the Italian border guards that I simply needed to get back across the border to my appointment. Many hand gestures later, I was back on the train and off to my interview.
I arrived in the beautiful village of Villefranche-sur-Mer. I had a moment of bliss, soaking up the surroundings; then I realised I had an hour's walk in my woollens around a massive castle to the quay where the boat was berthed. The bliss turned to big drops of sweat and throbbing feet. Miraculously, I arrived on time, dripping in sweat from head to toe, to meet the captain. I'm pretty sure he didn't offer me the job because he felt sorry for me in my ridiculous attire and with my red, sweaty face. I believe it just may have been the tiny, white porky pie that came blurting out of my mouth: ‘I have enormous yacht experience. I'm from Melbourne!' Suddenly, my money troubles were over. I now had accommodation, food and a job as head stewardess, all in one fell swoop. And after all, I was from Melbourne, and I had seen plenty of yachts.
The boat was 74 feet long. Think of a three-storey house with four bedrooms, a guest area and a further four bedrooms for crew. Now think of a cupboard – that's the cabin I shared with the other stewardess. The space in our cabin was about 1.5 × 2.5 metres and it was at the front of the yacht, so it was pointy in shape. It had a bunk bed about half the size of a normal single bed and the ceiling height was about 2 metres. And we had to share the tiniest wardrobe you have probably ever seen. Despite travelling in a cupboard, I was in heaven – I was on the French Riviera, cruising in a multimillion-dollar yacht. I had gone from dodging police, a potential rapist and a drug-addicted flatmate to floating in paradise.
Sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll
Six weeks after I started on the Deneb Star, David Bowie (yes, the David Bowie) bought the yacht. I was sailing the Mediterranean on the luxurious boat of a bona fide celebrity. Bowie was an amazing, down-to-earth, great bloke. He spent an enormous amount of time with the crew and we were very much part of his ‘gang'. He took us to parties and was generous with his time. We cruised with him and many other rich and famous people to such events as the Cannes Film Festival and Monaco Grand Prix, and across the Atlantic to the Caribbean. We even stayed in his Bali-inspired house on Mustique Island in the West Indies.
David travelled with an entourage that included his financial adviser, Bruce Dunbar, his son, Joe, Joe's nanny, David's girlfriend and a couple of others. Just to name-drop, here are a few passengers who came on board: Robin Williams, Mick Jagger, Eric Idle, Steve Martin and Michael Caine. This time in David's life was family time; there were actually no drunken parties, drugs or sex (although that doesn't include the fact that he sunbaked naked on the top of the yacht). There was, however, a lot of rock and roll. At the time, Bowie was starting a new band called Tin Machine, which meant a great deal of time was spent practising. During the day-to-day routine of life on the yacht, I would honestly forget that he was the David Bowie, although one day he was warming up with Space Oddity and my mouth just dropped. I then said out loud, to no-one in particular, ‘That is David Bowie!' (For the record, Bowie was a beautiful person who kept his feet on the ground. And if you want to know why Bowie has two differently coloured eyes, it's because he and his best friend were in a fight at school and the damaged eye was the result.)
Working on David's boat sounds glamorous, and at times it was, but it was also really hard work. We would have back-to-back charters for four months, which meant that you worked those months without a break. I needed to be available 24 hours a day and the job involved everything from cleaning silverware and the toilet to organising the helicopter to take guests out to dinner. While it was very glamorous to fall asleep in France and wake up in Monaco, the sea sickness was not. At times you wished someone would throw you overboard. And I won't go into the gory details regarding a very large man who managed to destroy the toilet, leaving whatever had just left his body all over the walls and roof – aargh, not glamorous.
Some of the wealthiest people in the world hired the yacht, and I wasn't too sure what to expect from them when I first started. I knew from my upbringing that people with money were ‘not us'. My gran experienced the Great Depression and worked as a cleaner – in her mind, if we got a job at Myer, we were doing exceptionally well. She believed we should never get above ourselves. (As I mentioned earlier, years later, when Boost started to get off the ground, she couldn't get her head around her granddaughter running the business. Gran was convinced that the part-time bookkeeper was the person I worked for – because who would listen to Janine?)
Meeting the rich and famous was great fun and a significant learning experience, especially about people. Most people who came on the yacht were lovely, like David Bowie; others thought they were superior to the rest of the human race.
On board, we had guests whose attitude ranged from ‘show us where the fridge is and leave us alone', to those who would send a boiled egg back because it was too hot. We once had a group of Americans on board and their kids were obnoxious. They thought they were better than everyone and treated all the staff like dirt. On the flip side, we had one of the wealthiest men in Kuwait as a guest, and his son was a lovely young man. The father asked me to type up a list of expenses for his son who was off to college in the United States. I was expecting to read that his son was allowed a fortune. To my surprise, his expenses were moderate. In fact, for the son to survive, he would have to get a part-time job.
Finding