La Signora and il Dottore were very much at ease when they stepped on board. Judging by their casual dress—she in a just-above-the-knee skirt and a colorful printed silk blouse, he in pleated slacks and an open-collar button-down shirt—they looked as if they had casually boarded the helicopter in their backyard. Later in the day, Patrick told me that was indeed how they traveled. Michele greeted them on the aft deck as they removed their shoes. They were all smiles as they looked up the masts and around the deck, gazing at the restored brilliance of their new acquisition.
Il Dottore came up to every crew member to shake his hand, but la Signora didn’t stray too far from the cockpit at the outset, saying, “Ciao!” to everyone from the distance while getting herself settled in. I hadn’t seen them since the interview, and I was hoping that she would approach me and ask how it was going, find out if the galley was going to be sufficient, and ask if I had everything I needed. But there was none of that. This sea trial was not only a test for the boat and crew; it was also the first time my new employers would taste my food. And I needed her confidence since I felt I had to prove she made a good hire. More so, I had put it upon myself to show there are good cooks from America, something many Italians I had met over the years found hard to believe. This second-guessing and insecurity kept me from approaching her, and as a result I found myself walking on eggshells.
The day became an education for everybody. From what Patrick, Kevin, and Scott said, everything seemed to be functioning properly as we sailed gently in a light wind. They tried to have all the work finished before the owners arrived, but there was still some tweaking to be done in the rig. My job description might have been cook, but it was quickly made clear that everyone’s first obligation was to help keep the boat afloat and operating, especially during docking procedures, sailing maneuvers, and if we, or the boat, faced any possible trouble. I realized quickly that working on a sailing yacht with a small crew meant double duty for the cook.
Up on deck, Kevin had his own ideas about assigning tasks while we were under way in the marina, including inflating huge fenders with an air compressor that protected the hull if we bumped into neighboring yachts when leaving and returning to our slip. Once beyond the breakwater, I was introduced to Serenity’s new Dacron sail wardrobe—the huge mainsail aft, the foresail that filled the space between the masts, then the headsails, including the staysail just forward and the upper and lower jibs that were rigged at the very front of the boat, creating a sail area that covered about five thousand square feet—and learned the systems for untying, changing, and handling most of the sails while under way, then flaking and storing them. Patrick, the ultimate authority, indicated how lines were to be coiled and stowed—down to which knots were to be used where. A few of them were easy to remember since they were exactly the same as ones I used for tying meats and fowl before roasting.
It was important that the rest of us knew exactly what the captain and mate wanted. Most tasks were not assigned to one crew member in particular; having everyone trained to perform all the sailing tasks made for good seamanship on board. Having worked in many kitchens with a similar etiquette, I found this easy to grasp.
Kevin coached us on raising and lowering the sails in succession from aft to forward—almost in a marching drill cadence. Serenity was gaff-rigged, meaning she needed two halyards (lines) on both the main-and the foresail to raise their heavy timber gaffs with the sails. There was a lot of weight to pull—three of us on each line, two guys to haul and one to tail the thick nylon-coated rope. Everyone had to pull in tandem. We got into position. Kevin tailed a line and would watch the sails go up to make sure we were raising them evenly. He started to call the hauling order: “Let’s go, guys! Two-six, PULL! Two-six, PULL! Two-six, PULL THE BASTARD! Come on! Two-six…”
I later found out the main-and the foresails with their respective gaffs, ropes, and blocks weighed somewhere in the neighborhood of three tons each. The higher and lighter side was the peak. But close to the mast, the throat was heavier since it took most of the weight of the gaff. Rick and I were given this assignment and decided between ourselves that the deck crew were hazing the “hospitality” staff by giving us the heavier side to haul. Rick mumbled and grumbled a steady stream of wiseass comments while we worked—work that turned into a vigorous physical workout. With the owners on board, this would become a twice-daily task. But I didn’t want the rest of the crew to see me as cracking on the first assignment I had been given, so Rick’s tirades and expletives made me pull all the harder.
After the lower sails were up, Ian and Nigel climbed the ratlines at each mast to the spreaders seventy feet above deck and proceeded to open the topsails, which then had to be tied off and trimmed at the pin rails located near the base of the masts. These added more sail area in which to catch precious wind. In heavy air, their lines could be tough to trim and make fast given the extreme forces on them. Raising the full suit of sails took us about forty-five minutes. Then we practiced using the large brass winches, the only electric equipment on deck, which were used for trimming the headsails. Throughout the day, we reviewed our repertoire of knots—bowlines, half hitches, clove hitches, locking hitches, slip hitches, square knots—and where to use them.
For anchor and chain procedures one of us had to go below and open the chain lockers in the fo’c’sle to pack the chain, while another had to rinse it off with a seawater hose while it was brought in with the windlass on the foredeck. Getting the huge anchor on board took three of us to haul it up with a block and tackle then put it in its crutch. There were steps for hooking to moorings, managing the bow while the anchor was being let out when we backed into a slip, knowing the hand signals from the cockpit, fender placement, stern lines, spring lines, passerelle raising, lowering, and stowage, then deck washing and specific ways to dry the varnished wood with chamois. The docking procedures were our version of coming home, opening the electric garage door, and setting the parking brake.
Throughout the whole process of getting the boat out of the harbor and under sail, piles of line were everywhere on deck. Il Dottore and la Signora remained in the cockpit with Michele in an effort to stay out of the way until the lines were coiled and stowed. During these procedures, I quickly came to understand what was expected of me as a crew member, which meant that I had to stay ahead in my work down below. Once the cruising began, I needed to be available for deck duties whenever Patrick or Kevin wanted me up top. At the same time, I didn’t want the owners to think I was straying too far from the main reason I was on board.
Just after midday we anchored between the Îles de Lérins in front of Cannes. Il Dottore came forward for a little while to chat with his crew. He explained that on one of the islands, the landmark Fort Royal had held the Man in the Iron Mask, the prisoner made famous by Alexandre Dumas in the novel of the same name. There is still debate, he said, over his actual identity, and the mask was apparently not made of iron. It was a nice gesture on the part of il Dottore, a little bonding with his crew, sharing a bit of lore about the area we were calling.
Rick served lunch to the owners and Michele in the cockpit while the crew ate family style around the crowded mess table. Rick and I had to stay in service, so it appeared our eating times were going to be before or after the others and most likely always on our feet. With the crew in the galley area and all the juggling of food, kitchenwares, and platters, my work space shrank by half. But the owners’ lunch looked fine. Fresh and simple, more knife work than cookery as I only needed one pot with one change of water—the first time for cooking the vegetables and eggs, the other for poaching the fish. When Rick brought the platters back to the galley, a decent amount of food remained, probably because I sent more than I needed to. I had prepared enough for six, but held back and sent out enough for four. But no word came back regarding the meal. Maybe because so much was happening on board that day, this was a working lunch.
We took a break for an hour, then pulled up the hook and once again
raised the sails to take long, leisurely downwind reaches back to Antibes. By early evening Serenity was tied up in her home slip. The skipper came below and told Rick and me to be on deck when the owners and Michele departed. Like clockwork, the owners’ jet-powered helicopter landed on the roof of the nearby yacht club to bring them back to Italy. It made a different noise, more like a soft, rhythmic whoosh, and I mused that for incredibly wealthy people even helicopter noise can be engineered for maximum comfort. Il Dottore and la Signora waved as they circled over the boat before heading east. Then we cleaned the deck and Michele arranged for us to have dinner in town with lots of rosé to celebrate a job well done.
Day one with the owners, and I survived, though I hoped that my daily tasks would become more habitual. I needed to master all the lines, knots, coils, hand signals, and procedures so I could maintain the demanding balance between cooking and sailing.
That night, back at the boat, I had a sinking feeling when Rick told me that from scraps of conversation he had overheard from the cockpit, he guessed that the owners would be entertaining a lot this summer. Running out of food was something I simply could not let happen. But I pushed these concerns out of my head as I ended the day sitting on the bowsprit all the way forward and enjoying a nightcap. I felt a certain degree of elation while looking aft along the convex lines of the deck, like barrel staves, on this restored beauty—like the high you experience after a vigorous workout.
A few days later Rick showed me the veritable bank vault of service ware that la Signora had been sending from Paris and Milan: Baccarat glasses, hotel-weight Ginori china, and Sambonet silver cutlery, serving pieces, and platters. There were table decorations and a beautiful caviar bowl made of heavy glass crystal from Lalique. Two handblown Murano glass vases were anchored in the corners behind the banquette. Patrick later told me they were extremely costly. To think this was all for everyday use. The Bernardaud porcelain for formal dining was kept in a separate cabinet in the salon. It was also hotel weight, which was better suited for use at sea since it was a little heavier than standard home china. The complete set was personalized with detailing that replicated the decorative blue line pattern that was painted along the hull of the boat.
While we were sorting through the platters, Rick finally convinced me that I would deeply regret not experiencing all the Côte d’Azur had to offer. He reminded me that now was the time because once we began cruising, the opportunity would be lost.
“Lighten up,” he had said to me on more than one occasion. “You need to check it out. It’s good, good, good!” By then, I was in decent shape in the galley and even starting to feel a little cabin fever. So we jumped in the old hatchback Peugeot crew car and headed to the Cap. We drove on some of the exclusive residential streets, and Rick pointed out the perfectly manicured villas whose owners he knew of, all flanked by beautiful French landscaping. “Here is the famous Hotel du Cap Eden-Roc—rooms are eight hundred bucks a night and they only take cash.” He said the word “cash” with deep inflection, almost with reverence. We weren’t in the car five more minutes when Rick returned to his familiar refrain, “How about we stop by Plage Keller for a couple of hours?”
We came around a bend on a coastal road, and in front of us was a long, secluded inlet. “This is la Garoupe,” Rick proudly declared. There were five or six beach clubs next to each other at the end of the cove. Along both sides were a couple of villas back from the water’s edge. Small boats were anchored and moored just outside the swimming area, bobbing like fishermen’s floats. The water was turquoise blue with a white sandy bottom. It was quiet, clean, and very civilized. No radios, screams, Frisbees, or plastic coolers of beer.
Rick marched onto the beach like a determined general and rented two matelas—comfortable beach chairs lined up in the sand—at the half-day price, about twenty bucks each. I followed in tow, curious to see if the experience would match the level of expectation Rick had set.
“This is the same beach where Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Picasso used to hang out,” Rick said as we got settled. “Lots of good history.” I envisioned writers and painters coming to unwind here after a long day in their studios and dens.
It was the perfect recipe for everything I thought the Riviera would be: the secluded spot, the azure blue of the water, and warm sand giving way underfoot. Then there were the women. Topless in small bikini bottoms and a few in scanty one-piece bathing suits. Their tanning bodies silhouetted against the glistening calm of the Mediterranean Sea.
“Hot, hot, hot,” Rick said as if summarizing what this place was all about. Then he confided, “I like older women. Much more mature.”
I must admit, I had to agree with him. This scene was hot. Why did I put off coming here?
My eyes continued to sweep across the tapestry of sun worshippers while I absorbed the seascape in front of me. Everyone seemed to mind their own business. Mostly adults—singles, not too many groups, and a few young families. It was very calm with the occasional sound of small waves splashing against a floating platform in the swimming area. There were tanned men in great shape, all suave with their black thick-rimmed sunglasses. The women were napping, reading French magazines, or chatting with friends. They were clearly comfortable in the surroundings. Rick, as if giving big brother advice, quietly said, “Nothing tacky, okay?” having caught me eyeing a few dames that had just come out of the water from a swim.
I watched as the stylish women enjoyed their place in the sun. When it was time to go for a dip, they put their bikini tops on, then after, took a freshwater shower to rinse off the salt water. They walked in the sand back to their matelas in what looked like slow motion. They put their hair in a ponytail, took their tops off, and put their sun-glasses back on. A waiter from the beachside café would show up minutes later with a bottle of spring water. The very picture of repose. The only thing missing was “The Girl from Ipanema” playing in the background.
“When are we going back to la Garoupe?” I asked Rick the next morning.
“See, you believe me,” Rick said good-naturedly. “Now maybe you trust me when I tell you about something good.” Having a partner to share in his fun elevated Rick’s mood. He seemed to polish the silver that morning with extra vigor and less complaint.
It is said one can always tell who the cook is on a boat—the one without the tan. From that day on, Rick and I got in the habit of disappearing for a few hours in the afternoon, telling our crewmates we were going shopping. It never occurred to me that after each “shopping” trip I came back increasingly darker. My crew members probably noticed this before I did. And just for cover, I always made sure I came back to the boat with something in my market bags. My rationale was that we were taking a deserved siesta since I’d have to return to make dinner for the crew. Plus, Rick reminded me that when the owners were on board, we would have long workdays both serving and sailing. It didn’t take long to discover that our shared attitudes toward some of the finer things in life were in fact bonding the battery of Serenity’s service team. If Rick’s motive was to get on my good side, his methods were solid. Those were some of the best days I have ever spent on a beach.
Michele dropped down the crew ladder early one morning while most of us were at the mess table. He poured himself a coffee and after a brief greeting declared that we needed to get to the uniform shop soon for sizing. “The owners expect everyone to be in formal attire when they are on board from here on.” His tone was expressly boat-manager-like—this was not a suggestion but an order. I decided to go get it over with that morning on my way back from the market.
The shop was in a mini arcade of yacht businesses: a marine hardware store known as a chandler, charter brokers, designers, crew agents, and the international grocery store. When I entered Dolphin Uniformes, no one was inside except for a tall, slender, short-haired brunette who was arranging polo shirts on a display.
“Bonjour, may I help you?” she asked with a heavy French accent. “Yes. I am here
to try on the uniforms for the Serenity account.”
“You need them soon I’ve been told.” She was very attractive and had a model’s posture when she stood straight up.
I quickly became less interested in the uniforms and more interested in talking with her.
“Nice earrings,” I said. “I like black pearls. They remind me of the South Pacific.”
“Have you ever been there?”
“No, not yet. One of these days.” There was a slight pause, and I needed to say something fast because all of a sudden I had her undivided attention. “What’s your name?”
“Véronique,” she replied with a nice smile.
“My name is David. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said and extended a hand.
“And you,” she said with a firm handshake, then excused herself to get the uniforms from the back.
I checked the labels when she returned. Patrick did me a solid—all cotton. I started with the shirts and took mine off in the middle of the shop, thinking nothing of it. I heard a soft “huh” from her now that she was behind the register counter.
“Is everything all right?” I asked.
“We have changing rooms over there,” she said with a grin, pointing to a small curtained area next to the jackets at the back of the store.
“Oh, pardon me,” I said, “but given how the dressing is at the beaches here, I didn’t think this would be an issue.”
She asked what beach I was going to and said that she liked to go for an hour or so every day to a little beach in Antibes near the ramparts. It was her lunch break ritual.
“Are you from here?” I asked.
“No, but I have lived here for a while. I grew up near Paris.”
“What brought you here?”
“I like the sun and the sea. After college I was a stewardess on a yacht for a couple of years owned by a French family.” She paused for a moment with a look of reflection, and then continued, “I didn’t want to go home after, so I stayed. Working here is a nice way to be in the business without moving around so much. Where are you from?”
Mediterranean Summer Page 8
