All at sea

Donal O’donoghue goes Below Deck for his reality TV kicks

Lockdown will soon be a thing of the past, but trash TV will never die. I realised this when I was recently sucked into the maw of the reality show Below Deck, its siren call luring me onto the rocks of Binge Bay. It happened, like many of my TV addictions in this past year, almost accidentally. ‘What’s that?’ I wondered aloud during an innocent ramble through the living-room, where my wife was absorbed in what seemed like some sort of maritime melodrama. That was two weeks ago. Now we’re on season four, having barely come up for air.

Inevitably described as ‘Downton Abbey on Water,’ this US show has been making waves since its 2013 debut (Below Deck is in its eighth season and there are two spin-offs, Below Deck Mediterranean and Below Deck Sailing Yacht). It’s set on board a superyacht during the charter season (in season four, we’re on The Valor, out of the US Virgin Islands) and there are cameras almost everywhere aboard. At the end of the third season, when the producers discovered that two of the cast were secretly meeting in the laundry room, a camera was promptly installed there too.

Big Brother on a Boat? Made in Chelsea Harbour? Downton Ahoy! All comparisons pale with the real deal that is Below Deck. And while it can cost the guts of $250,000 to hire this luxury yacht for three nights, the high-rolling guests are just the pampered bit players in a drama that is all about the crew. We are privy to their spats, their trysts, their jealousies, their drunken rants, their suspicions, their thoughts on the fellow crew members. And on the day the high-rollers leave, all eyes are on the wedge of cash handed to the captain to be divided among the crew.

Many dogwatches ago, I was briefly a crew hand on The Lord Nelson tall ship, when it sailed out of Gran Canaria. I bore my wife to death with the details while we watch Below Deck. You know it’s not really champagne and seared scallops I say, recounting the hours of cleaning the heads (the toilets to you and me) in a Force Seven or filleting giblets of chicken in a pokey galley or flaking out the anchor in the ship’s sweaty hold at first light. Of course, it’s not like that. Who wants to watch rubbery chicken being ripped apart when you can get seared tuna served up with a telling put-down or some crazy crew member pretending she’s a mermaid (and hoping the high-rollers hand over a big pile of shells on leaving day)?

Yet having fallen under its spell, I’m not sure how much more of Below Deck I can take. With most of the crew changing with each season (apart from Captain Lee Rosbach, who is still barking out orders in season eight; the other long-time crew member, Kate Chastain, abandoned ship in season seven) I’m beginning to miss the solidity of land and the succour of common sense. I’ve also learned one lesson, though. Next time I see something vaguely diverting on TV, I know not to say, ‘What’s that? – you never know what uncharted waters you’ll end up in.