Today, under a threatening sky and the beginnings of a serious chop, we took the lifeboat out for the scattering of the ashes of my lifeboat buddy's grandma. An Italian family, but with a tendency to speak French amongst themselves. My buddy took the helm for the last voyage, and everybody had a lump in their throats.
I'd warned the other members of the family that the urn might take a while to sink, and that they should be prepared emotionally for this, but they were convinced that their complicated Italian model would perform well. In the event, the bronze-coloured urn was almost as seaworthy as the lifeboat: it crested the waves and took the troughs with ease. We circled grimly around the stubbornly bobbing urn as the family got more and more upset. Finally it took its dive and with a last blast on the siren we headed for port. It had been difficult.
This evening, ever a creature of habit, I was polishing another lifeboat - a plastic one for collecting money, which an English shop in Antibes has kindly agreed to host. The caked muck on this one was not salt and seagull dung but coffee and biscuit crumbs.
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