Once we docked, reality set in as everyone scampered to take care of the chores that came with dockage. The boat’s fuel and water tanks needed to be refilled. There was also plenty of scrubbing, touch-up painting, and varnishing that had to be done. Washing the hull got me out of the galley and finally back into the sun. It felt good even if the work was mindless because it was all that I wanted to do. My body after the August ferie felt like it had been hit by a truck. Down below, table and bed linens, towels, and uniforms all had to be sent out for cleaning. Rick was taking care of that. Later in the day, I went onshore to provision, first climbing the steep cobblestoned streets to get a look at the town itself. Knowing the crew had had its fill of fish and pasta, I bought racks of lamb and contre-filet—big, thick strip steaks.
Three days in Bonifacio to take care of business and load up on red meat and potatoes, and then we were off for Calvi, in the northern part of the island. Normally, the mistral comes down the very jagged western coast of Corsica, hitting parts of the shoreline head-on, which is why, after centuries, the coast is so rough. So most sailors choose instead to head north on the protected eastern coast. But with no sign of the fabled wind, we headed up the western coast, hoping for an event-free ride. We chose right.
The citadel that has protected Calvi for centuries during its fabled history is conspicuous after rounding the Punta della Revellata just west. Nothing fancy about it, the fort rests on the top of a hill at the end of a small peninsula, its high stone walls standing guard to one of the most beautiful land and seascapes I’d ever seen. The quaint town and small marina below are well protected in the shadow of the citadel, and a sweeping look across the bay reveals a long stretch of desolated beach. With the rolling hills and mountains behind, this expanse of terrain is very inviting.
After dinner our second night there, Nigel and I decided to head for one of the sailor bars in Calvi. Normally, Nigel is not the type of person to talk to strangers, even friendly ones. But when he heard a familiar accent at the next table—the unmistakable lilt of a fellow New Zealander—he brightened up. The man at the next table responded immediately with a friendly “hello.” But then he introduced himself as Henri, saying it with a faux French accent. Registering our confusion, he explained that he was in the French Foreign Legion and was based in the citadel, the legion being the only tenants in the monument. No wonder it seemed off-limits when I went up to take a look. We asked him what his real name was, but he answered, “Henri,” and we left it at that.
What had turned into a jovial evening of conversation was interrupted by the roar and gunning of a motorcycle engine somewhere extremely close to the bar. We and everyone else in the room looked toward the doorway to see what was making the racket. Over the threshold stood a bear of a man in a black leather rider’s jacket, black jeans, and black boots, easing his shiny Harley-Davidson Sportster—engine still running with an occasional rev—into the bar and finally parking it in the space between the stools and the tables before shutting it down. A few women cheered the visitor on as he came in. It was, unquestionably, a grand entrance.
“That is Gaston. He likes to keep his new bike as near as possible,” Henri explained, using a tone of respect. “He doesn’t want it touched by anyone.”
To me, our visitor looked more like an outlaw biker than a Gaston, but I said nothing. Henri then told us that Gaston was his superior officer.
I wondered for a minute if Nigel was thinking what I was thinking—what an act! The false French names, the macho image. But if Nigel was thinking that, his face didn’t reveal it.
With his bike secure, Gaston sauntered right over to our table. He had a scar across his right cheek.
“Who are your friends?” he asked Henri, in a menacing tone consistent with the image he conveyed.
“Sailors on a yacht that called, mate,” Henri replied. “Good guys on leave.”
We introduced ourselves as David and Nigel, and Gaston, waving his finger at us and referring to me as Dave, leaned over and said, “One hard-and-fast rule of the island—Corsican women are off-limits to foreigners.” Then he ordered us another beer.
While Henri and Nigel mused about New Zealand, all I could think about was why anyone would join the legion, adopt a new French name, and basically shed one’s identity. Did these guys really think people didn’t see through their bravado? Then I began to wonder if Gaston had joined by choice or had signed up to avoid some messy situation in the country of his birth. We landed on their good side, but at the same time I became a little uncomfortable. Maybe in the back of my mind, I wasn’t thinking about the contrived élan of the legionnaires. Maybe seeing Gaston in his shielded but transparent posturing lit up a dark corner in my own psyche.
As the months of my sojourn turned into years, I had taken more and more satisfaction in the fact that I could pass as a native-born Italian. It was more than pride in learning to think and converse in another language, reflexively use its idioms, and speak with my hands. And it was more than conforming to the country’s customs and traditions and wearing its clothes. I wanted to pass as authentic because I felt comfortable with the notion of la bella figura—the impression I made on others—the part of myself that wanted to be Italian.
Now I wondered, was I as transparent to others as Gaston was to me?
In one more day, Serenity would be sailing back to Antibes and then on to Saint-Tropez. Then the season would be over, the job done. And yet I wasn’t thinking, as I would have in the past, “Okay, where do I want to go next?” What restaurant, what part of Italy, what type of work? And I knew why. For the first time during my years abroad I had a sense not only of time passing but also of time passing me by.
While we walked back to the boat, I firmed up a plan. Once we hit Antibes, I would find a moment to ask Michele what he thought about my approaching the owners with the idea of their backing me to open a restaurant or perhaps a food store in the States. I was more than a little anxious about what I might learn. Michele knew what the owners thought of me and would not hold back out of concern for how I would take it. I didn’t know if I was ready to hear bad news. But I promised myself that I would make the inquiry.
We left Calvi toward evening, when the sun had a brilliant red-orange glow. “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight,” so the adage goes. Patrick passed his off-watch hours by trolling a long monofilament fishing line between the stern. He caught a good-sized tuna at three in the morning, and Ian quickly grabbed a bottle of gin to pour over the fish’s gills—knocking it out instantly. I planned on having it broken down into fillets by daybreak.
During my watch, while manning a halyard jig, I was working out in my head how I would open the conversation with Michele when, absentmindedly, I took the last wrap of the line off the pin when a sail trim was called. The load on the rope made it ride fast and hard through my right hand, burning a deep and nasty red channel across my palm. It stung terribly, and the sea salt from the rope only added to the pain. Washing it was going to be excruciating. I was able to take the paid-out line and make it fast to the desired trim and immediately thought how sore my hand was going to be while at the stove. When I showed my wound to Patrick, he displayed no sympathy. “You’d better heal quickly because I need you on deck for the regatta. And don’t mention it to Michele,” he added, suggesting it would be a bad way to end a cruise.
Within days, everyone was so focused on getting ready for the race that I held off speaking to Michele. But when I decided to go ahead and ask him, he responded positively. “You should talk to il Dottore and la Signora. They were pleased with your work. They may well want to help you.”
Then he gave me some heartfelt advice. Understand whom you are talking to, he warned gently but with a seriousness that caught my attention.
“In America, when you approach a businessman to bankroll you, he will expect you to show him a business plan and some financial projections. But it won’t work that way with the owners. If they do it, they will do it as a gesture of
honor, because you have earned their respect, but they will expect honor on your part in fulfilling your end of the bargain. It is not only business. It is personal. This is a big responsibility. Think about it. There will be more time to talk. I will be sailing on Serenity for the regatta.”
But there was little time for talk. No one was doing or thinking of anything except preparing for the races. To make the boat as light as possible, Rick and I were assigned to unload anything that was not needed. After we removed everything that wasn’t to be tied down, we loaded a new inventory of sails, which we all had to learn to handle. We practiced hoisting the gollywobbler, a huge sail that would encompass the entire area between the masts; using the genoa, a humongous light air jib; the fisherman, an almost trapezoid-shaped sail that was flown between the two topmasts to catch precious wind above; and finally a new addition to our heavy lifting, the main jackyard topsail, a larger topsail than the one we carried complete with two yards—heavy spruce pieces of timber that held the sail—adding another ton to our regimen when used and apparently could help provide another knot of speed. We’d need at least a dozen strong pairs of arms to hoist and trim this one. Patrick took his extra speed very seriously. Thankfully, he invited others to race with us—Peter, a captain and master in classic schooner sailing, some very capable maxi-boat sailors, a dedicated rigger, and our sailmaker. Also, Serenity had to be sparkling, not just race ready, for this was as much a social event as a sailing event. We washed and polished everything. Finally we were ready to leave for Saint-Tropez.
By the time we arrived, nearly all the motorboats had been cleared out of the harbor by the authorities, and hundreds of sailboats, of every size, age, and shape, took their place. We passed slender America’s Cup race boats from past eras, fleets of yawls, ketches, and sloops. In the belle classe category a remarkable collection of schooners and cutters were assembled: Camille and Juliette, the huge yacht Danzer, Maiden Sea, Pegasus, Aurora, Beguine, restored large J-boat racing beauties from the 1930s, and of course, our nemesis, the gorgeous and perfectly maintained Carina. We backed in next to her. Grudgingly we all admitted that she looked divine.
That evening we checked out the bars and nightclubs. Usually the sailors hang out at one kind of place and the owners and their friends at another. But during regatta week, these barriers break down. One night, la Signora was seen working her way through the sailor-packed Hotel Sube bar, obviously curious as to the goings-on. One of my mates from another boat gave me an elbow and said, “Isn’t that your boss over there?” A minute or so later, she was gone, her curiosity apparently satisfied.
In two days the races would begin. For all of us except Patrick, winning meant one thing—winning. But Patrick was looking for some degree of acceptance with a different crowd—professional racers. Being the skipper of the family’s personal yacht meant something to him, but the regatta was his chance to prove he had what it took to do more—to be an elite yacht racer.
The chilly morning dawned bright on the harbor at Saint-Tropez, and by the time I climbed on deck, there were already helicopters flying above, spectator boats getting ready to leave, and chase boats outside filled with paparazzi snapping shots for the sailing and gossip magazines. On the quay there were hundreds of people, most of them with hopes of catching a glimpse of an international celebrity or boat. The temperature rose to a pleasant sixty degrees, and although I could feel a small bite of autumn, I didn’t have an opportunity to get cold from the breeze. Too much work remained to be done. I still had to prepare lunch for twenty people prior to the start of the race, baskets of the ever-present yacht race lunch—sandwiches, cut fruits and cheeses, candy bars.
Within an hour the harbor emptied, and everyone was sailing in front of Saint-Tropez. We would race three times—today, tomorrow, and then, after a day’s break, a third and final race. Patrick was tightly focused, and everyone else knew the drill and was alerted to what had to be done. He also gave il Dottore and la Signora new Windbreaker jackets like ours, but to honor them as owners, theirs were beige instead of navy blue. Il Dottore and Michele stood by the helm acting as navigators and tacticians. La Signora wore binoculars around her neck and was standing up, well positioned to observe everything. For someone who gets seasick, she seemed oblivious to anything but winning the race. Rick had gone aft to trim one of the jib sheets. This would also keep him close to the owners in case they needed something. Everyone else was positioned as assigned by Kevin. I was stationed at the foredeck. As amped up as we all were, we had no illusions. Carina’s hull design made her a faster boat for this kind of race, and we needed more than a little help from the wind if we were to beat her.
Patrick set the radio to the race channel and turned the volume up so we could all hear what was happening. Excitement on deck built. The fleets of small boats would be first. The announcement was made: “This is the race committee. All six-meter boats will start in fifteen minutes.”
In a predetermined sequence, flags rose and guns went off as the first boats were off. All morning long, class by class, the boats left, and the next classification got ready.
It was about an hour and a half before we received our call: “Ten minutes, la belle classe.”
Now it was our turn. Until then we had been trying to stay out of the way, cruising around the bay until we got close to the start, which was about a couple hundred yards from the breakwater. The fleet was assembling near the line, maneuvering around each other under full sail. It was amazing how much physical labor and seamanship it required to make these glorious and magnificent yachts appear graceful, slightly heeling to one side, as they cut through the water. And then the gun fired, our class’s coded flag went up, and the voice on the radio hailed, “belle classe, this is your start!”
Just as in a foot race, there is a challenge in crossing the starting line of a sailing race. Getting out of the blocks at the first possible moment but not a split second earlier is paramount. The idea was to approach the starting line under perfect trim and at full boat speed when the final gun went off. If you cross the line before the official start, you will be penalized and have to go around and start again. And if you are not yet at the line when the race starts, you will be playing catch-up, trying to make up lost time against those correctly under way. We all knew that if Carina took a significant lead on us at the start, we would not be able to make up the loss.
We had a strong wind that morning, which was good for us but also made for a very physical day. All of the sail changes, the lack of electric winches for most of the sails, and the need for six or seven of us to trim the topsails entailed a lot of active work. Kevin, I could see, had a competitive edge and was comfortable driving his troops. During the race, we’d heave the lines and growl together while Kevin, excited and fired up, shouted, “C’mon guys, HAUL IT, DAMN IT! PULL! PULL! Keep going! PULL THAT BASTARD!”
For the first few hours, things looked good, with Serenity holding her own and staying within close range of Carina. We all watched her every move. I was told by one of the maxi sailors to keep an eye on Carina’s crew. The activity on deck would let us know if a tack or sail change was coming up. This way we could respond as quickly as possible.
Aurora was being expertly handled not far behind us. But slowly, Carina began to take off. At that moment, we knew it was over. We crossed the finish line a few hours later, a far second.
In the second race, the course was slightly altered. This was to our advantage because there would be more off-wind opportunities, and that’s where we excelled. Serenity’s long keel was suited for those situations where the wind blew across her beam or from all points behind. She was probably designed to satisfy the yachtsman’s motto “Gentlemen sail off the wind.” With the winds that we’d been having, the extra weapon in our sail wardrobe, the fisherman, would be a powerful tool and no doubt add boat speed. Also, long off-wind legs of the racecourse were great opportunities for me to do prep work, since the boat in these conditions was leveled off and the r
ide much smoother than anything upwind.
Serenity must have been a happy boat that day as she powered through the course because we could hear the hum along her hull. We were pretty happy ourselves. With the help of the extra crew, every maneuver, sail change, and trim went off without a hitch. Not one mistake occurred, nothing broke, and none of the other yachts caught us. Victory was ours.
When we crossed the finish line, the first gun sharply declaring us the winner, a cheer went up throughout the deck. There was a lot of excitement from the cockpit, and la Signora looked the proudest I had ever seen her. But we all knew that if we were going to win the third race, we would have to stay close to Carina right from the start or she would leave us in her wake.
As pumped up as I was about the race itself, I wasn’t excused from my day job. I was still the cook on board, and the owners were still expecting a first-class dinner. Given that we were in France, I decided to create a sequence of dishes inspired by coastal French cookery. I bought some salt cod and made savory profiteroles using the recipe for brandade de morue that Madame Quillier, from the shop in Antibes, had given me at the beginning of the summer, when I bought my kitchenwares from her. Then I made a fish soup served with the traditional accompaniments: croutons, rouille—a spicy type of mayonnaise—and grated Gruyère cheese on the side. Rick served the soup from a porcelain tureen. For the entrée, a beautiful saint-pierre—John Dory—caught that morning just outside the bay that was baked, as per the fisherman’s advice, with locally foraged chanterelle mushrooms and served with roasted new potatoes scented with garlic and thyme. On the way back from the famous open-air market in the Place des Lices, I picked up a classic local dessert, tarte tropézienne, and I made a berry coulis to serve with it. It was the owners’ kids who came into the galley later to deliver the compliments.
The off day gave the crew a chance to relax and take care of personal business. Patrick spent time at the race committee office checking our ratings and standings. The rest of the crew did what had to be done on deck, and then ran off with friends from other boats. But Rick and I had scheduled time to speak with the owners—Rick with il Dottore and me with la Signora. Rick told me about his meeting after I had mine.
Mediterranean Summer Page 25
