Fisherman's festival

These little boats, double enders, are the traditional fishing boats round here, now chiefly used for leisure. There is an annual rowing race across the bay. Hot work, that requires industrial strength coolant supply from the lifeboat's firefighting kit. It took four of us to hold the hose, and I am the one furthest aft on the foredeck, making sure no kinks happen in the hose, which gets really heavy and stiff, with a life of its own.

Me about to disembark for lunch, having just helped to haul in mooring ropes at the bow. Getting the flags down required me to shin up the radar mast. Strangely no vertigo when on water.

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No blogging done in the last couple of days because I have been putting in long hours on the local lifeboat. I've been taken on as a trainee crewman, which means that I take part in exercises and non emergency work, but am not yet qualified to go out on a 'shout'. The station here, despite a huge amount of leisure boating (and risk of accidents or breakdowns) is a little short-manned, which is why, I think, they were willing to take me on.

The long hours over the weekend were because we were on duty for the fisherman's festival (St Pierre), which includes lots of boat related mayhem (including squirting the rowers of the pointus with our fire hose to cool them down after a race), and quite a bit of water taxi work out to the Abeille Flandre, a big rescue tug. Yesterday was the wreath laying ceremony for all the seafarers who lost their lives at sea. The mayor, Leonetti, the parish priest in all his togs, and a group of wizened old salts bearing banners, all came on board a for once absolutely gleaming lifeboat (we had spent quite a few hours giving it a buff and polish that morning). We, too, had changed from work clothes into summer dress uniform (navy shorts and white short sleeved shirts with the SNSM logo).

Offshore, in full view of the ramparts, the priest grabbed a loudhailer and gave his blessing, in a tone which was quite moving. Meanwhile, a couple of lifeboatmen, including me, were holding the wreath, which was pretty heavy, (the frame was made of old pallets) but which we had ballasted with some spare anchor chain to make sure it fell into the sea the right way up. His nibs the mayor (looking quite nervous about being on board a boat which was bobbing just a wee bit) was symbolically ready to give the ceremonial push. We had been told, quietly, that our job was to correct his aim.

When the signal came, we tried to launch the wreath flat, like a frisby. Easier said than done when it has to clear the railings and all the gear at the stern of a lifeboat. Still, it did bellyflop into the water flower side up. The small boats began to circle around the semi-submerged floral tribute, and the priest then turned to me and owned up quietly that his grandfather, a fisherman, had drowned at sea not far from that spot.