March 17th — St. Patrick’s Day. I’d just finished another chaotic Bingo Loco night in Sydney: glitter everywhere, punters singing off-key, me on stage hosting the show. I loved it — the noise, the madness, the attention. But that night was my last. I knew I’d done my time. I had more to give, and I wanted more in return. It was time for a change.
Jack, my brother-in-law, is good at framing big decisions. That’s his job — I don’t know his exact title, but he works with big companies making big calls. And now I had one of my own: “what’s next?”
We’d been circling the subject for weeks. I’m passionate about food, but I couldn’t imagine dying in a shitty restaurant after 30 years. Eventually, he dropped the line that stuck:
“You don’t have to be a chef forever. You just need to be a chef next. You love food — go find out if it’s not for you.”
So, I went to Ballymaloe. A culture I never knew existed — fast, creative, relentless. Surrounded by people who lived and breathed food. It was crazy: I’d always loved food, but I never knew this world was here — that you could actually do this.
Ballymaloe is where I met Emma. Same course, same accommodation, but far more experience. At the end of term, she looked at me and said:
“Cian, you’ve got to do a ski season. It’s fun, fast-paced. It’s food and snow.”
So I did. And she was right — it was all of that. But something was off. I couldn’t pin it down. For the longest time, I thought I’d made a mistake. Maybe cheffing wasn’t for me after all. I was cooking. I was busy. But I was lonely.
Then one cold morning in France, over coffee, I met my friend Katie. She told me about Yacht Week. We drifted into a million other topics, but the next time I saw her she circled back:
“You’d love it,” she said. “You’d be perfect for it.” I didn’t believe her.
I wasn’t so sure. At that point, I wasn’t sure about anything — even cooking. She described this wild crew sailing the Med: cooking, partying, messing about, laughing like a family. It sounded too good to be true. The skiing wasn’t for me — maybe this would be the same. But I didn’t have a plan for the summer, so I thought: fuck it. Why not? It’s just the summer.
Almost immediately after I said yes, Katie warned me I was too late. Applications were closed, chances slim. But once you’re in a fuck-it mood, you lean in. I applied anyway — scraped in.
That’s how I found myself at Academy: a week-long interview on a flotilla of five yachts. Living, working, laughing, cooking. They watch how you interact, test if you’re fun, and, yes, make sure you can actually cook. I loved every second of it. Again, that thought hit me: I just didn’t know this was here. I didn’t know you could do this.
Once Academy was over, Yacht Week began for real. And honestly? I can’t put it into words. So check their socials. Because if you think it looks too good to be true — looks can be deceiving. It’s even better.
The friends you make here are tribal, the places unforgettable, the excitement palpable, the fun tangible, and the memories irreplaceable.