Jeff Greene's Party Yacht: The Insider's Tale From His Former Stewardess

Photos provided by Sharyn Peach

Mike Tyson with a Summerwind employee.

​Sharyn Peach has been in the news a lot lately, telling of the days she worked on the yacht owned by Jeff Greene, a candidate for U.S. Senate. Peach, from Fort Lauderdale, is  lead singer of BitchFire, winner of the New Times 2009 Readers Poll for Best Band. She agreed to write a first-person tale about her days as a stewardess on Greene's yacht.

know about him and his past behavior? I still cringe when his commercial comes on.

The Summerwind hosted celebrities like Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan.

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Working on Greene's 145-foot Choy Lee yacht was like being "locked" in Studio 54 in its prime. It was nothing short of "Sex, Drugs, and Techno Music." Celebrities, "hired" party girls, mayhem, and debauchery. I saw more tits and ass in one night on Jeff Greene's Summerwind than I have for the past seven years on South Beach.
 
I had recently moved from Boston to South Florida and was looking for a new career. A friend recommended the yachting industry, and I signed up for a yachting course. A recruiter came to me with the Summerwind opportunity in March 2006. I thought I had finally found the perfect job. The ability to travel and experience different parts of the world. Normally a graphic designer, I thought I'd try something a little more exciting. And that it was.
 

The "Moroccon Room" on Greene's yacht.

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When I first got on the boat, I was impressed with its size but not so much with its design. The crew seemed nice and welcomed me aboard.
 
Everything was great for five days or so, and then Mr. Greene got on board with two young ladies from California. Mr. Greene was demanding and condescending. He was never satisfied with anything. He was always yelling at the crew. Things quickly went from fun to frustrating, and I knew something wasn't right.
 
From that point forward, I kept a journal. I detailed every experience I had on that boat for the month I was there.
 
The real partying started in Sag Harbor, New York. That's when a deckhand and Mr. Greene would go to a place named the Sex Castle and come back with new women almost daily. My journal entry on August 14, 2006, begins:

"Last night's party was interesting to say the least! I think I've seen more tits in one night to last a lifetime! Naked, drunken people everywhere! Freakin' weirdos, bumping and grinding all over the place. Russell Simmons was onboard too. Nice, quiet guy actually."

Nakedness was common on Greene's yacht.

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Shortly after that party, I found four lines of cocaine in Mr. Greene's stateroom bathroom marble vanity. Frustrated, I blew as hard as I could figuring no one would miss it.

Day after day of constant partying wore on me and on the crew. On August 21, the chief steward quit after one week. The chef left the next day, and I gave my notice. On August 23, the captain got fired, and they gave the job to a captain who had run two boats aground. My journal entry from that day describes one of them:

"Last night, he was picking up Russell Simmons on the Tender -- driving 50 mph, he runs into a sandbar and gets stuck! We're screwed!"
 

Peach says "party girls" like this one were often brought aboard to entertain.

​On August 24, my journal entry explains the state of things: "I can't even explain how f'd up this ride has become. Mr. Greene constantly berates me, makes me feel incompetent & unworthy of breathing the same air as him. But Beverly (my yacht recruiter) called me & tells me, he likes me and what will it take to keep me on until after Labor Day?"

Greene offered me more money to stay on through Labor Day. So I changed my mind (or lost it) and decided to stay on ten more days. It was more of the same.
 
"I don't even know what to write about anymore," I wrote on August 27. "I'm mentally and physically drained. It's raining and cold today. These f er's always show up, rain or shine, as long as there's booze and food. Mr. Greene didn't go to bed until 9 this morning."

Mike Tyson got on board sometime in late August. I particularly remember serving Tyson a vodka and Red Bull while he was receiving oral sex from a hired entertainer. After this experience, I'd had enough. I booked a bus ticket from Sag Harbor to JFK.

I made my last journal entry September 8, when I got back to Fort Lauderdale:

"It's the never-ending saga of the Summerwind. I finally got paid last night, but it's short, by $918.00. The damn bastard is screwing everyone out of monies owed. Have I mentioned how glad I am to be home? Even though I'm shorted money. What an experience indeed. Lesson learned. Never to be repeated again."