lundi 27 septembre 2010
Northerly latitudes
Off to Brussels to join the 'A' Team for a week. It will feel funny wearing shoes and socks after so long in sandals and bare feet. Still, mornings on the roof terrace here are beginning to get chilly.
dimanche 26 septembre 2010
Alsace sur mer
A surreal experience yesterday, after the usual strenuous lifeboat exercises in the morning. One of our crew is off to Strasbourg to start nursing training, executing a 90° or perhaps 180° career turn from his former calling of notary's clerk.
To honour his send off, the station had organised a farewell alfresco lunch down on the quayside, next to the lifeboat. Lots of people, grizzly veterans of the open boats of years ago, chappies who gravitate around the lifeboats because they lend a hand on the mechanical front, spouses and children. It was good fun, but the main course, in a none-too-subtle nod to Strasbourg, was sauerkraut, or choucroute as it is known in France. It is the first time we have had outdoor choucroute on the Côte d'Azur. Very strange...
To honour his send off, the station had organised a farewell alfresco lunch down on the quayside, next to the lifeboat. Lots of people, grizzly veterans of the open boats of years ago, chappies who gravitate around the lifeboats because they lend a hand on the mechanical front, spouses and children. It was good fun, but the main course, in a none-too-subtle nod to Strasbourg, was sauerkraut, or choucroute as it is known in France. It is the first time we have had outdoor choucroute on the Côte d'Azur. Very strange...
lundi 20 septembre 2010
Another flag
You may have seen the rather ragged Tricolore in a previous blog. Well, there is one spanking new flag around here, brought back by some of the Normans on the lifeboat crew. The Norman flag, far bigger than the French national flag, was hoisted at the mainmast in a position guaranteed to cause apoplexy amongst the Bretons. Still, on the leaflets the national SNSM sends us, the picture on the front, of a lifeboat just like ours, shows a Breton flag fluttering proudly in the shrouds.
Propaganda and Proof
Saturday and Sunday were the Journées du Patrimoine, or Doors Open Days. Lots of buildings not normally open to the public were for once accessible, and guides were there to explain what went on in them.
One of the buildings in Antibes which opened its doors was the Coastguard look-out station, or 'sémaphore', up on the Garoupe plateau next to the lighthouse and the church. It is manned, 24/24, by specialised French Navy personnel, and since they still had their job to do, they asked the Lifeboat Service for a hand in showing people around. It was a nice assignment, as we met a lot of people, and working with the sailors (many of them now female) was good fun.
We profited from the forced presence of dozens of people queuing in the hot sun to vaunt the utility of the lifeboats, pointing out that when the coastguards identified a vessel in trouble, they usually sent us, even though we were unpaid civilian volunteers. To be fair to the sailors, they spent their whole time praising us, which was embarrassing but nice.
Just to prove our usefulness, our beepers rang three times during the day, so we piled into whatever cars were available (old wrecks) and headed down the corniche into town and on to the lifeboat station. For the first two beeps, we had already started to cast off, with the motors roaring, when the order countermanding the sortie came through on the radio. So back to the Coastguard station, handling crowds and questions...
The third beep came just as we were about to tuck into a delayed lunch. This time it was for real. We sped out of the harbour in search of an injured jet-skier in the water, with suspected spinal injuries and difficulties in breathing. Not easy to spot against the sun, but we found her and started the slow, painstaking job of getting her (it was a young woman) onto an orthopaedic stretcher in the water, stabilising her head, shoulders, pelvis etc, and craning her onboard with the minimum of movement to her body. Here is her wetsuit, afterwards: needs a bit of needle and cotton work before it can be put on again. I suspect it was hired...
As you may have gathered, once on the lifeboat a couple of us attended to her, unceremoniously cutting off her wetsuit with scissors to check for bleeding or embedded objects, whilst others administered oxygen and checked her blood oxygen. I have to stress that she was wearing a bathing suit, but we would have removed the wetsuit all the same. Meanwhile, we needed to get the boat ready for coming alongside a suitable landing stage to put the casualty near to an ambulance.
She didn't die on us, which was good, and this lunchtime I had a telephone call from the coxswain to say that though she was still in hospital having her - probably serious - injuries assessed, she wasn't at risk of paralysis.
So back, in the battered old cars, to the Coastguard station, and more people to show around. After the last curious visitors were chased out of the military precinct, the officer commanding the base offered the ubiquitous pastis to all and sundry, as the sun set, and the lighthouse began its regular illumination of the Coastguard barracks. Eaten alive by the mozzies, though, as they thrive in the dank plantations of all the millionaires who have houses on the Cap d'Antibes.
Finally got a lift home, or nearly home, in the car of my parrain, or lifeboat buddy, which alarmingly conked out about thirty times coming down the hill. I thanked him, and then walked the rest of the way. Hope he got home...
One of the buildings in Antibes which opened its doors was the Coastguard look-out station, or 'sémaphore', up on the Garoupe plateau next to the lighthouse and the church. It is manned, 24/24, by specialised French Navy personnel, and since they still had their job to do, they asked the Lifeboat Service for a hand in showing people around. It was a nice assignment, as we met a lot of people, and working with the sailors (many of them now female) was good fun.
We profited from the forced presence of dozens of people queuing in the hot sun to vaunt the utility of the lifeboats, pointing out that when the coastguards identified a vessel in trouble, they usually sent us, even though we were unpaid civilian volunteers. To be fair to the sailors, they spent their whole time praising us, which was embarrassing but nice.
Just to prove our usefulness, our beepers rang three times during the day, so we piled into whatever cars were available (old wrecks) and headed down the corniche into town and on to the lifeboat station. For the first two beeps, we had already started to cast off, with the motors roaring, when the order countermanding the sortie came through on the radio. So back to the Coastguard station, handling crowds and questions...
The third beep came just as we were about to tuck into a delayed lunch. This time it was for real. We sped out of the harbour in search of an injured jet-skier in the water, with suspected spinal injuries and difficulties in breathing. Not easy to spot against the sun, but we found her and started the slow, painstaking job of getting her (it was a young woman) onto an orthopaedic stretcher in the water, stabilising her head, shoulders, pelvis etc, and craning her onboard with the minimum of movement to her body. Here is her wetsuit, afterwards: needs a bit of needle and cotton work before it can be put on again. I suspect it was hired...
As you may have gathered, once on the lifeboat a couple of us attended to her, unceremoniously cutting off her wetsuit with scissors to check for bleeding or embedded objects, whilst others administered oxygen and checked her blood oxygen. I have to stress that she was wearing a bathing suit, but we would have removed the wetsuit all the same. Meanwhile, we needed to get the boat ready for coming alongside a suitable landing stage to put the casualty near to an ambulance.
She didn't die on us, which was good, and this lunchtime I had a telephone call from the coxswain to say that though she was still in hospital having her - probably serious - injuries assessed, she wasn't at risk of paralysis.
So back, in the battered old cars, to the Coastguard station, and more people to show around. After the last curious visitors were chased out of the military precinct, the officer commanding the base offered the ubiquitous pastis to all and sundry, as the sun set, and the lighthouse began its regular illumination of the Coastguard barracks. Eaten alive by the mozzies, though, as they thrive in the dank plantations of all the millionaires who have houses on the Cap d'Antibes.
Finally got a lift home, or nearly home, in the car of my parrain, or lifeboat buddy, which alarmingly conked out about thirty times coming down the hill. I thanked him, and then walked the rest of the way. Hope he got home...
vendredi 17 septembre 2010
Coming apart at the social seams
The president of the republic is getting a bit hot under the collar about how his policy towards illegal encampments is being represented abroad. The problem for him is that France, despite its boasting about having invented human rights and having given the world liberty, equality and fraternity, has had - like many European countries including the UK - a murky and none-too-glorious history when it comes to aliens and minorities. This history comes back to haunt...
There is a distinct feeling here, at the moment, that many of the values of the republic are being flouted. I don't know whether the Tricolore and the triple motto of Liberté Egalité Fraternité are consciously linked in their threefold symbolism, but a peek at the flag flying over the Chateau Grimaldi in Antibes last night showed that the red part, for me the best of the colours politically, was rapidly becoming detached. Is that a portent?
mardi 14 septembre 2010
Trousses de pharmacie
Spent the night lying awake, not out of worry, but out of curiosity about how to organise a spreadsheet to deal with the need to replace, at wildly varying times, the many medical supplies the boat carries. Some of the products, like injectable adrenalin, a real life-saver, need to be ultra-fresh. Pretty well everything we carry has an expiry date.
The inventory system needed to be simple, because other people than me will be having to modify and update it, and it needed to be transportable, because it is to go on several different computers. It also had to distinguish which of the two medical kits the item belongs to, so more than one search criterion will have to be applied.
I finally decided against a spreadsheet programme, as the learning curve is high, and there is no need, anyway, for any inter-cell calculations or formulae. I opted instead for a table within a bog standard word-processing package, on the grounds that pretty well everybody can use one of those, and most computers come with a compatible one already installed. The alphanumeric and numeric sort functions could deal with names and dates, provided I turned the dates into pseudo decimals, such as 2010.09 for September 2010. The different locations could be accommodated by a simultaneous secondary sort instruction, probably numeric (a simple kit 1 and kit 2).
Cracked it this morning, and started entering the data: a tedious business. Boy, do medicines have strange names! There is no obvious relationship between the names and what they do, as far as I can see, and certainly no relationship between names and the active ingredients. The chief research, if not the most costly, in drug companies, must be pseudo-lexical invention. Wouldn't mind doing a bit of that myself, if the money was right.
This afternoon I am off to the lifeboat station with my computer to try out on the cox whether it is easy for somebody else to understand. The trouble is, he is as sharp as a razor. More than I can say for all the crew, but he'll have to do.
The inventory system needed to be simple, because other people than me will be having to modify and update it, and it needed to be transportable, because it is to go on several different computers. It also had to distinguish which of the two medical kits the item belongs to, so more than one search criterion will have to be applied.
I finally decided against a spreadsheet programme, as the learning curve is high, and there is no need, anyway, for any inter-cell calculations or formulae. I opted instead for a table within a bog standard word-processing package, on the grounds that pretty well everybody can use one of those, and most computers come with a compatible one already installed. The alphanumeric and numeric sort functions could deal with names and dates, provided I turned the dates into pseudo decimals, such as 2010.09 for September 2010. The different locations could be accommodated by a simultaneous secondary sort instruction, probably numeric (a simple kit 1 and kit 2).
Cracked it this morning, and started entering the data: a tedious business. Boy, do medicines have strange names! There is no obvious relationship between the names and what they do, as far as I can see, and certainly no relationship between names and the active ingredients. The chief research, if not the most costly, in drug companies, must be pseudo-lexical invention. Wouldn't mind doing a bit of that myself, if the money was right.
This afternoon I am off to the lifeboat station with my computer to try out on the cox whether it is easy for somebody else to understand. The trouble is, he is as sharp as a razor. More than I can say for all the crew, but he'll have to do.
lundi 13 septembre 2010
Who are these blog followers?
I thought I'd just check how many had been looking at my blog, by country: the results are curious...
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dimanche 12 septembre 2010
More to do at SNS 148
Saturday morning was spent at sea, as usual, practicing the same old manoeuvres: man overboard, passing towlines, getting everybody used to all the elements of the operations. Throwing a towline is really hard, as a previous blog indicates, but I am now learning to drive the boat, mostly by varying the thrust on the massive engines. The throttles are like those on an aircraft...
Afterwards, we cleaned up and refuelled (my job is to squeeze between the superheated exhaust pipes and the fuel tanks, and take readings every minute until the tanks are full, about twenty minutes in well over 55° air temperature). Great for testing deodorants, but not good for whoever has to wash the clothes afterwards.
Then the usual handshakes or kisses or both (delicate, mathematically, when dealing with a crew containing both Normans and Bretons, just like my family), and everybody separated for lunch.
Hardly had I arrived at home when the alarm goes off. Back to the station, at a smart trot. Start the engine room routine, whilst being filled in on what is going on. Apparently a ferry between France and Corsica had picked up a faint radar signature, and had gone to investigate a sighting of a boat without way. They observed a Marie Celeste style yacht with ragged sails, and seemingly only ravenous dogs aboard.
We were sent to check it out, a good sixty miles offshore, much nearer Corsica than to Antibes. Off we went, roaring into the empty quarter, which was bizarrely filled with hundreds of brightly coloured footballs lazily bobbing on the swell (container overboard?). What we were really keeping a watch for, however, was the presence of submerged logs, of which there were plenty.
After a bumpy ride, during which everybody either slept or was on watch or at the helm, we found the boat; the good ship Tapenade, almost spot on, which was down to the seamanship both of the ferry watch-keeper and of the lifeboat skipper, Laurent Desmare. Yours Truly was supposedly navigating, but really just acting as scribe for latitudes and longitudes, every fifteen minutes, and noting all radio traffic, whilst keeping radar watch.
We started to think what we should be wearing if we had to scrape long rotted human remains up from the deck. All weather suits, boots, gloves, etc.. Not a joyous prospect.
The boat, when we got to it, pretty close to Corsica, was a rubbish-strewn wreck, which we smelled even before we saw. It was a floating midden of the foulest excrement imaginable - three dogs, with full rectal freedom, and a bloke, still alive but off his head: apparently 'at the height of his powers' and living off a diet of powerfully emetic figs. Barmy and barfy, to put it short. There was a brief conference with the military and the navy doctors who give us our orders. "Board, take control, bring back the boat and its occupants!"
But we were not police, we were not armed or even insured for that kind of work, and had no desire to take on either dogs or a madman; let alone any corpses he might have had below deck as a surprise.
Still, one of our crew, Laurent N° 2, had spent ten years in the Navy, in the special forces, perhaps, though one is reluctant to ask. He went on board the boat, which was totally unseaworthy, just as the guy himself was, being completely off his head. Lolo2, somehow, (though secretly armed with the sharpest knife I have ever seen), got both guy and dogs to cooperate willingly. Indeed, both crazyman and dogs smiled or wagged tails furiously whenever our chap was near. Frightening, really.
We tied up alongside, passed essential provisions and a VHF radio, and began the tow. The tow took about six and a half hours, during time which we kept in constant radio contact, in case either dogs or loony decided to have a go. Luckily I had passed Lolo2 some supplies of water, and a fleece -because the water quality aboard, and the sanitary conditions of the blankets, were not ones to play around with. He deserves the Olfactory Medal, first class, with WC and nasal bar.
On the way back, we were surrounded by pods of dolphins, tucking into mackerel in a fantastic display of feeding frenzy. The idea that dolphins are some kind of sweet, cuddly creature is far off the mark. They are like killer dogs. Impressive to watch, though.
As night fell, we had to train a searchlight on our tow, which had no navigation lights. We were in the middle of the shipping lanes, with high speed ferries from Corsica passing close by at a rate of knots. Training the searchlight on a moving target, to keep it illuminated, as both it and us constantly changed position, is a tiring business, and we set up half hour stints. Half an hour feels like a long time, I can tell you. Still, seeing the sun set over Porquerolles, whilst still in full view of the mountains of Corsica, is an experience I wouldn't have missed for anything.
We got into port well past ten thirty at night, and were greeted by some very big guys from the firemen's ambulance service, escorted by a patrol of cops, one of whom, in the background, had undone the restraining strap on his revolver holster. In the end, the chap went quietly, leaving us with the problem of the dogs. Their first act was to crap, all over the place, and then they lapped up prodigious amounts of water, whilst a kind woman fetched some dog food. They attacked it, and each other with abandon. They were destined for the police dog pound, just as their owner was destined for a check up at the funny farm.
Then it was casting off time from the quay, to go around to our berth. Putting the boat to bed when that tired is the last straw, particularly the engine shut down routine, when the engine room has been in pretty well continuous operation for the best part of fourteen hours. We had used over 700 litres of diesel fuel.
We filled in the rescue chit. Nothing to pay for the man or his dogs, but the tow, at the admiralty rate, came to a modestly impressive set of euros with zeros. Not that the guy has any money to pay it with.
Next evening, the chappie turns up at the lifeboat station, pre-announced by the same unforgettable reek, having been released from hospital. He wanted to find his new friend, Lolo2 and offer him a drink on his yacht Tapenade, apparently in the same state he had left it. Luckily Lolo2 was indisposed, and in bed: who knows what drink he might have been offered, and with what consequences for his health?
Afterwards, we cleaned up and refuelled (my job is to squeeze between the superheated exhaust pipes and the fuel tanks, and take readings every minute until the tanks are full, about twenty minutes in well over 55° air temperature). Great for testing deodorants, but not good for whoever has to wash the clothes afterwards.
Then the usual handshakes or kisses or both (delicate, mathematically, when dealing with a crew containing both Normans and Bretons, just like my family), and everybody separated for lunch.
Hardly had I arrived at home when the alarm goes off. Back to the station, at a smart trot. Start the engine room routine, whilst being filled in on what is going on. Apparently a ferry between France and Corsica had picked up a faint radar signature, and had gone to investigate a sighting of a boat without way. They observed a Marie Celeste style yacht with ragged sails, and seemingly only ravenous dogs aboard.
We were sent to check it out, a good sixty miles offshore, much nearer Corsica than to Antibes. Off we went, roaring into the empty quarter, which was bizarrely filled with hundreds of brightly coloured footballs lazily bobbing on the swell (container overboard?). What we were really keeping a watch for, however, was the presence of submerged logs, of which there were plenty.
After a bumpy ride, during which everybody either slept or was on watch or at the helm, we found the boat; the good ship Tapenade, almost spot on, which was down to the seamanship both of the ferry watch-keeper and of the lifeboat skipper, Laurent Desmare. Yours Truly was supposedly navigating, but really just acting as scribe for latitudes and longitudes, every fifteen minutes, and noting all radio traffic, whilst keeping radar watch.
We started to think what we should be wearing if we had to scrape long rotted human remains up from the deck. All weather suits, boots, gloves, etc.. Not a joyous prospect.
The boat, when we got to it, pretty close to Corsica, was a rubbish-strewn wreck, which we smelled even before we saw. It was a floating midden of the foulest excrement imaginable - three dogs, with full rectal freedom, and a bloke, still alive but off his head: apparently 'at the height of his powers' and living off a diet of powerfully emetic figs. Barmy and barfy, to put it short. There was a brief conference with the military and the navy doctors who give us our orders. "Board, take control, bring back the boat and its occupants!"
But we were not police, we were not armed or even insured for that kind of work, and had no desire to take on either dogs or a madman; let alone any corpses he might have had below deck as a surprise.
Still, one of our crew, Laurent N° 2, had spent ten years in the Navy, in the special forces, perhaps, though one is reluctant to ask. He went on board the boat, which was totally unseaworthy, just as the guy himself was, being completely off his head. Lolo2, somehow, (though secretly armed with the sharpest knife I have ever seen), got both guy and dogs to cooperate willingly. Indeed, both crazyman and dogs smiled or wagged tails furiously whenever our chap was near. Frightening, really.
We tied up alongside, passed essential provisions and a VHF radio, and began the tow. The tow took about six and a half hours, during time which we kept in constant radio contact, in case either dogs or loony decided to have a go. Luckily I had passed Lolo2 some supplies of water, and a fleece -because the water quality aboard, and the sanitary conditions of the blankets, were not ones to play around with. He deserves the Olfactory Medal, first class, with WC and nasal bar.
On the way back, we were surrounded by pods of dolphins, tucking into mackerel in a fantastic display of feeding frenzy. The idea that dolphins are some kind of sweet, cuddly creature is far off the mark. They are like killer dogs. Impressive to watch, though.
As night fell, we had to train a searchlight on our tow, which had no navigation lights. We were in the middle of the shipping lanes, with high speed ferries from Corsica passing close by at a rate of knots. Training the searchlight on a moving target, to keep it illuminated, as both it and us constantly changed position, is a tiring business, and we set up half hour stints. Half an hour feels like a long time, I can tell you. Still, seeing the sun set over Porquerolles, whilst still in full view of the mountains of Corsica, is an experience I wouldn't have missed for anything.
We got into port well past ten thirty at night, and were greeted by some very big guys from the firemen's ambulance service, escorted by a patrol of cops, one of whom, in the background, had undone the restraining strap on his revolver holster. In the end, the chap went quietly, leaving us with the problem of the dogs. Their first act was to crap, all over the place, and then they lapped up prodigious amounts of water, whilst a kind woman fetched some dog food. They attacked it, and each other with abandon. They were destined for the police dog pound, just as their owner was destined for a check up at the funny farm.
Then it was casting off time from the quay, to go around to our berth. Putting the boat to bed when that tired is the last straw, particularly the engine shut down routine, when the engine room has been in pretty well continuous operation for the best part of fourteen hours. We had used over 700 litres of diesel fuel.
We filled in the rescue chit. Nothing to pay for the man or his dogs, but the tow, at the admiralty rate, came to a modestly impressive set of euros with zeros. Not that the guy has any money to pay it with.
Next evening, the chappie turns up at the lifeboat station, pre-announced by the same unforgettable reek, having been released from hospital. He wanted to find his new friend, Lolo2 and offer him a drink on his yacht Tapenade, apparently in the same state he had left it. Luckily Lolo2 was indisposed, and in bed: who knows what drink he might have been offered, and with what consequences for his health?
jeudi 9 septembre 2010
Busyish
Blog silence for the last few days, as things have been quite busy down at the lifeboat station.
We were on helicopter training Tuesday night, with the same Navy squadron as before, with the same great diver, but a rather gung-ho pilot, who caused a couple of lads on deck to duck involuntarily. After debriefing, it was nearly midnight when we finished. Not possible for us to take pictures of ourselves from outside the boat, so here is one taken on an earlier exercise, by the lifeboat photographer, Choupette...
Having just gone to bed, or so it seemed, the alarm went off just before five in the morning, as the perfect storm hit Antibes. The sky exploded in a Krakatoa-style eruption of continuous thunder and lightning, then the wind and the hailstones hit simultaneously. Within seconds, the palm trees were nearly horizontal, and our street was under a foot of fast flowing water. No time to take photographs, but here is the sky the next morning, a veritable eiderdown of superheated water vapour just looking for a violent change of temperature...
The cox, Laurent Desmare, who lives up in the suburbs, risked his life to get down to the boat through the flooding, thinking all the time that his motorbike, with him on it, was going to be carried away by the terrifying force of the flood water. A brave man, even before stepping onto the lifeboat.
I myself waded through knee deep water/hailstones, now raging like a river in spate, freezing to boot, in order to get to the port. The others have similar stories to tell. We managed to get together a comically bedraggled crew, soaked before even sailing, who prepared the boat for sea, lit up by end-of-the-world style thunder and lightning. By this time, the wind had dropped sufficiently to get the boat out of the narrow berth and through the congested port.
Out to sea, then, at full speed, with the best cosmic fireworks I have seen in years. Our flashing blue police lights were completely outclassed. Strangely, by this time, the sea had almost been scraped calm by the wind.
We were being called in turn by CROSSMED to give assistance to five boats in difficulty (mostly dragging anchors, adrift, and subsequent collisions with major damage), including a fantastic sailing yacht (56 metres) which had been blown into the fish farm off Juan les Pins, causing havoc and a fair bit of Free Willy happiness amongst the liberated fish. Lots of herons were in on the story, and there might be some good line-fishing for once in the bay. Here is the yacht, now in calm waters, with divers disentangling the fish farm nets from the propellers and rudder.
We towed several variously shaped and sized boats to safety in ports (none of which - being privately run for profit - were happy to take on emergencies), reanchored another two which were drifting, and stood by on safety watch whilst the big yacht was extricated from the fish farm.
We were stood down five hours after setting out, and it took another hour to get back and tied up in port, this time punching through quite a swell. Nobody had eaten or had a pee, and the fresh coffee and the illicit relieving of bladders into the waters of the port were equal bliss. Writing up the official reports afterwards, and cleaning and preparing the boat for the next call, was less fun.
Then it was off, unshaven and pongy, to another crew member's house to do the graphics on a flier we are producing to try to get the English speaking community to support the lifeboat. Agreeably fed and watered by his charming wife, but struggling by now to stay awake.
Getting home at the back of three, I had just had a shower and was preparing for a bit of shut-eye when the alarm went again. So off to the boat, another engine room routine, etc. This time it turned out to be a false alarm, but it was an hour before we were stood down.
Then another helicopter winch exercise the following morning, with seas just beginning to be seriously ruffled by the mistral. With every bump and crash into the next wave, the spray went right over the wheelhouse. Everybody tired, and taking turns at the wheel (including yours truly), to save the cox for the hairy bit when the helicopter hovers over us. The bearing chosen by the helicopter pilot for our run was perfectly calculated for a nice corkscrew pitch and yaw, which brought one of our crew to the verge of barfing onto the descending Navy diver as he dropped onto the deck.
The way back was enlivened by the alarms going off in the starboard engine, so we nursed the boat back at a wallowing 12 knots instead of the usual jolting 25. Sure enough, when I did the engine shut down routine, starboard side there was a smell of burning - the insulating lagging in the ventilator had melted, and was dripping like hot chocolate down onto the massive exhaust pipes. I kopped a few drops nicely pre-heated, on the nape of the neck, which caused untold mirth amongst those who were by this time scrubbing the seagull dung off the wheelhouse.
Then, at 6pm, we had to get togged out in uniform for the arrival of a delegation from Paris. Good chance to get to know the lifeboatmen from the other stations, including the skipper from Menton, who used to pilot the barges with Airbus wings from Mostyn to Bordeaux, so very familiar with the charms of Denbighshire and the vagaries of the North Wales coast.
This morning, the planned scattering of ashes at sea has been cancelled, which is both a good thing in itself, to allow the crew to rest, and a means of giving me time to write this blog...
mardi 7 septembre 2010
Redevance audiovisuelle
Some time ago I had dealings with the local tax office to sort out the question, unthinkable in this neck of the woods, of not having a telly, and therefore not being liable for the TV licence fee, which is collected automatically with the rates.
In the meantime, if you remember, I had to pay up.
Well, today, having had the use of our money for some time, they have finally conceded that we weren't liable after all, and are proposing - at some undefined time - to reimburse us the one hundred and eighteen euros. That slightly antiquated-sounding 'déclaration sur l'honneur' actually worked, despite my misgivings, so chapeau once again to the tax people here.
In the meantime, if you remember, I had to pay up.
Well, today, having had the use of our money for some time, they have finally conceded that we weren't liable after all, and are proposing - at some undefined time - to reimburse us the one hundred and eighteen euros. That slightly antiquated-sounding 'déclaration sur l'honneur' actually worked, despite my misgivings, so chapeau once again to the tax people here.
Hélitreuillages
The French Navy's Search and Rescue helicopter squadron at Hyères has asked us to offer a moving target for their winching crews to practice sending down divers, paramedics, stretchers, etc. Two exercises this week, one tonight in the dark, and one on Thursday morning, in the daylight.
This is what it looks like in daylight from our boat, with apologies for the music
... And here is what it looks like at night, again with our boat, but seen from the helicopter
Then, not this weekend but the next, tamer stuff: a lot of work manning information stands for the Journée du Patrimoine. Most of it sounds fun, but there is going to be a mass blessing of boats, so the language on board, whilst the priest intones and sprinkles, is likely to have to be a bit more what is in the dictionary, and less concerned with the human anatomy. Not that anybody can hear above the din of two turbocharged Volvo diesels.
This is what it looks like in daylight from our boat, with apologies for the music
... And here is what it looks like at night, again with our boat, but seen from the helicopter
Then, not this weekend but the next, tamer stuff: a lot of work manning information stands for the Journée du Patrimoine. Most of it sounds fun, but there is going to be a mass blessing of boats, so the language on board, whilst the priest intones and sprinkles, is likely to have to be a bit more what is in the dictionary, and less concerned with the human anatomy. Not that anybody can hear above the din of two turbocharged Volvo diesels.
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