Escargots

A, in Brussels, has become adept at fashioning snails from blue playdough. Sounds like the idea has caught on, because a rather chichi art gallery has decided to place blue snails on its walls, facing the sea...

Dunno about the rest of you, but A's snails speak to me more.

Just before the storm

Yesterday, after a lot of practice docking and positioning the lifeboat, stuff we hadn't had much chance to practice as a team over the summer, because we were too busy on call outs, we were rewarded with a bit of a bounce, out in the bay. The wind was from the south east, so strong and whipping up quite a chop. For the first time with me aboard, everybody was in the wheelhouse, and the watertight door and hatches were all battened down, in case of capsize. Enjoy the video full-screen.

Fun, especially when the lookout shouts back "Big one coming, hang on". The boat needed a good rinse afterwards, including a going over with scotchbrite pads all over the railings, which were caked with salt and chalk.

Once back in harbour, the wind really began to howl, and sure enough, around eleven at night, the beeper went. But I got a phone-call before I was able to leave the house: another false alarm.

False Alarm

Hardly back from the library this afternoon, and just about to have a rest, when the beeper for the lifeboat sounds. So out of town clothes, into birdshit-proof trousers, expendable shoes, and lifeboatman shirt, out with the lifeboathouse keys, a quick kiss goodbye to the BH, and a sprint to the lifeboat.

I was the first there, so I did the engine room routine, got the windscreen protectors down, and started to prepare the boat for sea, covering myself, naturally, with birdshit. By this time, another oldie had come, and he started the port and starboard engines and tuned in the VHF emergency channel on the radio, whilst a third, younger lifeboatman began to cut the umbilical cord which supplies electricity to the boat. We were absolutely ready to go, but minus a cox and two more crew members; and minus instructions on where to go.

Finally, the deputy cox arrived and radioed to the coastguard watch station. Where were we supposed to go? What was the nature of the emergency? How many lives at risk? The usual questions...

The coastguards replied, a little embarrassedly, that there had been no call-out from them. Somebody with access to the secret number, or had had the fluke of punching in by mistake exactly the right code, had activated our beepers and caused all the rush. We were stood down half an hour later; quite relieved all the same that our services hadn't been needed.

That sinking feeling

Saturday morning was spent in the port of Antibes, with everybody, including rank beginners like myself, learning to dock and cast off the lifeboat. Quite farcical to begin with, as we presented the craft at very odd angles to the quay. But gradually we got better at it, and my last attempt didn't scare anybody, even though the throttles are super-sensitive, and could almost drive the bows through a concrete sea-wall. After the morning's exercise, we washed down the boat, checked out the engine-room, had a small beer and headed home.

Just as lunch was over, however, the beeper beeped and I ran to the station. I was called on my mobile, too, as I was sprinting, so I knew it was serious. A sailing boat was sinking some 30km off Antibes, and our lifeboat was the only one nearby, equipped with salvage pumps, allowed to go out that far. Things weren't helped by the fact that the crew had now dispersed. One poor chap even got arrested by the cops as he tried to get to the station as quickly as he could. His absence was keenly felt, as we eventually set out to sea with just three of us plus the cox, and one chap has a damaged shoulder. It really was the odds and sods brigade, which wasn't ideal if we had to pump out a boat and take it in tow.

On the way out, the chop was just enough to make things tickly when getting out the salvage equipment, which is very heavy and slides around the deck. It was also bumpy enough to spill the lifeboat secretary's drink (the first liquid he'd had all day, as he had been working) all over his dress uniform. He hadn't had time to change from the togs he had been wearing for an official function.

We raced there, with the windscreen wipers working overtime against the spray and occasional packets of water. Meanwhile, we were trying to figure out all the possible ways of rigging a venturi pump, in case the amount of water in the sailing boat was really serious. Lots of combinations possible, only one of them sucks water, the others pump water in: not what we wanted.

A couple of kilometers from the position we had been given, we came onto a collision course with one of the massive fast ferries to Corsica. We had no time to lose, and needed to cross their bows to reach our casualty. We hailed them on the VHF in French - no response. I tried them in English - no response, and we were getting perilously close. Finally we tried Italian, and they answered. Phew, we were sweating by then. They slowed down by about one knot, just sufficient for us to scrape across in front of their massive bulb bow. Check out our wake vis a vis their bow in the photo...

Then we saw the sailing boat, by now accompanied by a fishing boat. It was listing badly, and when we got to about 300 metres, after 30km of flat out, rivet and bone shaking race against time, the bow of the sailing boat went down, the stern rose in the air, and the Titanic scene played itself out in tragic miniature. Bubbles, sad personal effects, food and clothing bobbed to the surface over the next few minutes. We just hoped there was nobody aboard when it dived to the bottom. We were all in tears, it is like watching the end of a living being. Horrible.

We hailed the fishing boat, and took the crew of the sailing boat on board. They had taken to a small inflatable, which would have been almost impossible to find had they been on their own. They were cold and shocked. A whisky was served, the bottle protected from smashing with the lifeboat's motion by being placed in a lifeboatman's thermal welly-boot. It looked like pouring pee from a welly! Still, it bucked up our casualties, who were dead tired.

On the way back, yours truly, fresh from a full 15 minutes' driving instruction in the morning, and that in the sheltered waters of Antibes port, now took the helm, checked the charts, compass and radar, and brought us safely back through the shipping lanes and right to the entrance to the port. Nearly three hours at the wheel and it felt like it.

Once back in port and tied up, it was the usual rigmarole of cleaning, engine room routines, reports on oil, water and fuel levels, all in an engine room which had had plenty of time to heat up. We were down to our last 500 litres per engine, not a good margin for safety.

Water power

The weather since coming back from Brussels has been quite disturbed, with high winds in particular, which whip up the sea into a cauldron of churning, steep sided, close spaced breakers. Not a place to be in a small boat. The first screen is a view from the Bastion St Jaume towards the Gravette. The seawall with railings in the distance is quite substantial, which gives some idea of the power of the waves heaving over it. The second screen shows salt spray daring to besmirch the polished surfaces of the superyachts on the Quai des Miliardaires.

Brussels and back

Back from Brussels, and trying to get used to the intensity of light, after a generally grey old time up north. The temperatures, however, were pretty similar.

Looking after A., and doing errands, meant taking lots of public transport, and I can't speak highly enough of the integrated system in Brussels, where the same, time-limited ticket will see you board a tram, a train and an underground train (or a bus) in quick succession, with a minimum of fuss, and at a price which would leave Londoners gobsmacked by its cheapness.

Musical life was good, too, with an extraordinary concert at the Royal Conservatory of Music, featuring Monteverdi choral works accompanied by period instruments, courtesy of Il concerto italiano. Monteverdi was working in what was a fairly recent tradition of giving words their full intelligibility, and having real Italians, and intelligent ones at that, singing the words as if they were theatre was a real 'ear-opener'. The miraculous acoustics of the concert hall helped in no small measure.

Still, it is good to get back to Antibes, which now definitely feels like homecoming, even when, as today, it is blowing a gale, and waves are passing clean over the ramparts.