I turned fifty that autumn. Five-zero. One of those numbers that makes other people start talking about pensions, life insurance, and annual health checkups. I, meanwhile, was standing in the middle of a surprise party that felt more like a carnival than a birthday celebration. Music, laughter, bottles being passed around, and congratulations bouncing through the air like confetti.
I didn’t have any big projects going on at the time. No tours, no productions, no builds, no chaos to manage. My life was as open as a blank calendar.
That was exactly when it happened.
A man I barely knew leaned over the table with the look of someone carrying either a secret or a dangerous idea.
“You up for an adventure?”
I was fifty, slightly buzzed, full of life, and you already know my answer.
“Of course.”
“Can you cook?”
“Yep.”
“Can you cook for a crew from South America?”
“Sure can. Tacos every day!” I laughed.
He smiled — the kind of smile that feels like someone just activated a pressure plate in an Indiana Jones temple.
“Good. Then let’s do it.”
One week later I stood in Greenock, Scotland, with the wind biting at my face and my suitcase rattling with kitchen knives, spatulas, and a spare pair of socks. In front of me towered a dark, worn-down ship that looked more like a floating tool shed than a vessel. Rust, cables, dents — a Frankenstein monster of steel and saltwater.
But it hid secrets. It hid history. It hid treasure.
And I was about to board it as the ship’s cook.
“You’re the new cook?”
The man who greeted me was from Panama. Tattoos snaked up his neck. His smile was friendly with a subtle warning baked into it. Behind him stood a handful of others — Venezuelans, Colombians, Panamanians, a couple of Lebanese guys. All with the same expression.
Hope.
And distrust.
“Be better than the last guy,” someone said.
I laughed. “What happened to him?”
They exchanged glances.
“Car accident,” one said.
“And then…” another mimed a knife-to-throat gesture, “we nearly finished him.”
Just like that. No sugarcoating.
The bar was set.
Unlike the last cook – I actually knew what I was doing
Having spent years with professional chefs, touring bands, festival catering, backstage chaos and rock-star demands, I knew exactly how to cook for hungry people with strong opinions. I wasn’t scared.
In the first weeks, my routine was almost military.
Up at 05:00.
Coffee.
Breakfast for thirty.
Then lunch.
Then dinner.
Then repeat.
And the crew loved the food. Rice, stews, soups, meats, fish, ceviche done my way.
And yes… sometimes tacos — because a promise is a promise.
The ship’s secret
This was no fishing boat. No tour boat. No white sails.
This was a deep-sea research vessel hunting for one of the modern world’s most valuable resources: the precious metals that sank with ships in World War II. Metals that weren’t incredibly valuable at the time — but today, worth millions because they power every smartphone and computer on the planet.
We were literally treasure hunting.
On board we had ROV submarines, sonar systems, engineers, divers. It was like living in a mash-up of Raiders of the Lost Ark, Deadliest Catch, and MythBusters filmed on a tight budget.
The storm that shouldn’t have hit us
The winter storm that hit us had no business being there. We were in port. The ship wasn’t even seaworthy yet. Cables weren’t fastened, equipment wasn’t tested, nothing was truly ready.
But the ocean doesn’t care.
It started with a scraping sound. Like fingernails dragging across steel. Then a violent jerk. The mooring lines snapped — not like they broke, but like some invisible giant simply cut them clean off.
“All hands! ALL HANDS!”
The ship shot out into the storm like a hockey puck on an ice rink.
I ran up on deck, gripping anything I could. Waves smashed over us, the darkness was absolute. The wind was so strong that the rain stung like needles.
“Is the ship ready for this?!” I yelled.
“No! Not even close!”
And yet there we were.
In open sea.
In a full storm.
Half crew.
Half equipment.
Full chaos.
And somewhere in the madness came the moment that would change my life more than the storm itself.
How I Became INDY
When we finally made it back to port — soaked, frozen, shaking but alive — we gathered in the mess hall. It was the kind of exhausted silence people only share after surviving something together.
One of the Venezuelans took a bite of bread, looked at me and said:
“You… you were running on deck like that guy from the movies.”
What guy? Which movies? I had no idea. I’d been too busy trying to stay alive.
He continued:
“You know… Indy.”
Three heads snapped around instantly.
“INDY!”
“El sueco Indy!”
“Indiana Jones, man!”
I laughed — the tired, relieved kind of laugh that comes when the adrenaline finally wears off. They laughed even harder.
The next morning, someone had written in marker on the galley door:
INDY’S GALLEY
And that was that.
I was no longer “the cook”.
Not even “the Swedish cook”.
I was INDY.
The Swedish adventurer who ran across a stormy deck like he was chasing a golden idol.
And it fit.
Because there we were — me, a multinational crew, and a ship hunting treasures at the bottom of the ocean.
It was Indiana Jones without the whip, but with frying pans, spices, and ROV submarines.
Indy.
That name was born right there.
And it followed me all the way home.
The months that followed
The work after the storm was intense. We lowered the ROVs into the abyss, watched the ghostly outlines of WWII wrecks appear on screens, saw boxes and containers swallowed by darkness eighty years ago. Engineers shouted, cables groaned, screens flickered.
And every time I announced “Dinner!” — the entire crew appeared like soldiers hearing reveille.
“Indy! What’s on the menu?!”
It was like living in a movie where food mattered just as much as the treasure hunt.
A chapter that never would’ve happened if I’d said no
Looking back, it feels surreal that it all began at a birthday party, with a gin & tonic and a joke about tacos.
But that’s how life works.
The greatest adventures don’t arrive with a plan.
They arrive as whispers.
Questions over a table.
Moments of courage — or impulse.
And sometimes… they come with storms, ROV submarines, WWII treasures, and a nickname that sticks for a lifetime.
Indy.
The cook.
The adventurer.
The man who never stopped running across the deck in the storm.
By Chris... (Indy)
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