Swift succession

Yesterday was yet another ashes ceremony at sea. The grieving family looked oddly familiar, though. It turned out we had taken them out on the same mission just two weeks before. On that occasion we had physically carried the widow, in her wheelchair, onto the boat and lashed her securely to the safety lines for the trip out for her late husband. She had been unconsolable. Now it was her turn to be committed to the deep. Yours Truly had the unenviable privilege of casting both sets of ashes: nobody else felt up to it.

It was a difficult occasion for the family, who were fantastically dignified and very grateful to us for being there and reuniting the couple beneath the waves. It was quite difficult for us, too, and we went about the tasks aboard with a moist eye and a lump in our throat.

Royal Wedding

For some reason, which I need to investigate urgently, my computer now lights up for internet use on a Yahoo royal wedding page. Given my origins and profound convictions, this needs to be reset 'very' urgently

Rough weather training

Today was rough weather training. There were four to six metre waves, closely packed, coming over the breakwater. The purpose was to acquaint the trainee second coxes in using the throttles and the wheel simultaneously. The learner drivers, hanging on for dear life, were all lined up behind Christophe, who was calmly commenting what he was doing, as one hand spun the wheel furiously and the other hand constantly adjusted the revs and the flaps. Looks easy, but the slightest mistake and it is curtains for everybody aboard.

I was keeping the log, in the navigator's seat, which was a good place to be, as the seat has a hydraulic shock absorber. It made note-taking just a little bit easier. It was too rough, punching our way out of harbour, to take any photos, and anyway visibility was zero, with solid water coming over the windscreens. Pity, because the adrenalin count would have been high.

Once we turned around, out in the bay, the boat was steady enough for pictures. The first reel is us side on to the waves: I was agreeably surprised how sea-kindly the boat was, as she is pretty flat bottomed. The second reel shows us, almost without drive on the motors, surfing down the front of the waves which were catching up with us from astern. Lurch, speed up, plane madly, then slow down. Lurch, speed up, plane madly, then slow down.

"El Vomito" puked his load, as usual, but luckily he was wearing his waterproof overalls and had a bag at the ready... I don't think Charlie, who was on the cleaning detail, had to clear up too much mess afterwards, though he wouldn't have told me, even if he had had to do so. Good lad!

Free and not so free

Yesterday was the first day in ages that we were both free at the same time. We seized the moment and headed for the Malpey forestry house in the Esterel, near Mont Vinaigre. For once, the road through the mountains wasn't a-buzz with motorbikes driven by kamikaze leather-freaks.

The walk up to the Malpey crossroads, and then off across the hills on the GR to St Raphael, was heavenly. The spring has arrived late this year, but with a vengeance. Wild lavender, cistus 'roses' both pink and white, euphorbia of various kinds, thyme, anemones, orchids: everything was in haste to be pollinated and crying out for attention. The bees were working overtime, filling the otherwise silent air with a wonderful bourdon like the one described by Dante in the Earthly Paradise.

We climbed to the top of a hill with a large cairn, where we got a sea and coast panorama from Italy through nearly to Toulon. Aptly, perhaps, the spot was called 'Le Grand Parfait'. We just called it Paradise, as we ate tapenade and goat-cheese sandwiches, followed by locally grown qumquats, and sat in the sun: doing absolutely nothing except being happy.

Meanwhile...

Meanwhile, to the far left in our maritime panorama, unbeknown to us, a sordid, shameful drama was playing out between Menton and Ventimiglia. The prefect of the Alpes Maritimes, who had already ordered the SNCF some time ago to commandeer a train to deport migrants into Italy (shades of an ignoble past during the Occupation), had unilaterally suspended rail traffic between Italy and France, and had put the national border and Garavan stations under what appeared to be martial law, with squadrons of robothugs in armoured wagons just waiting for the signal to start state-sponsored mayhem.

It turned out that a group of left-wing sympathisers in Italy wanted to accompany (and protect) a small contingent of Tunisians, who already had Schengen-valid papers, as far as Cannes, where the 'rafles' have tended to take place. The BH had witnessed at Cannes station one of these concrete, official manifestations of 'France, pays d'accueil et d'asile' by the lads in blue, and had found it very disturbing and frightening.

Similar scenes were taking place just across the border at Ventimiglia, where the robothugs' brothers in arms, whose proud battle honours include the Genoa G8 police riots, were performing sterling service in the name of illegal containment. France's honour was saved, partially, by the presence of a very brave band of French volunteers at the station in Ventimiglia, who, under the glowering, helmeted and far-from approving gaze of the Pubblica Sicurezza riot squad, handed out refreshments and first-aid to the now tired, confused and frightened migrants.

So, once again, France's leadership, which often haughtily gives lessons to others about how to be European, and how to be the paragon and torch-bearer of the Rights of Man (Tom Paine, the real author, is never mentioned, though), has indulged in a little FN-inspired escapade, flouting the fundamental European principle of free movement etc. Do not hold your breath about any national or international reprimand. This kind of government misbehaviour, just like the shameful policy of kettling in the UK, is never properly followed up legally.

Ship's (e)motion

Yesterday's casting of ashes at sea was a bit hairy. There were a lot of mourners, for a start: many of them getting on in years and needing help to move around the lifeboat. Then there was the sea-state. Fine for us, who were used to it, but quite challenging for people not used to a smallish, skittery boat in a swell, especially once we had stopped for the ceremony, out at sea and beyond the shelter of the Garoupe. Finally, we had the complication of leaking diesel fuel from the auxiliary pump, which covered part of the deck with an incredibly slippery film. The general skating about, coupled with the rich aroma of the fuel, and coming on top of the understandably fraught emotions at a funeral, had some people looking for the sick bag, and one person had to be held to stop her falling overboard as she repeatedly 'fed' the fishes over the side. Still, they all did magnificently in the circumstances, keeping a brave face. We did magnificently, too, as there were only four of us crewing, all oldies, including a colleague from another station who was helping out.

Famous for so many seconds

I was hailed in the street by an acquaintance: did I know that I featured, front page and next to last page, in the local newspaper? I'd been there before, and didn't expect much: a blurred group photo, at best. But there I was, featured photographicallyas a hero in a lifeboat rescue which I hadn't even participated in. Other, more frightening rescues, in which I had actually had a rôle, had not been featured. That's the way with the press. Heroes are manufactured, according to need. Still, it's all grist to the mill when trying to finance the fuel bill of the lifeboat.

Don't be natural! You're being filmed...

The film crew from the Mairie made a short film of us on exercise. For once, despite being a klutz, I grabbed the rope at the right time (we had already cast off, and the cameraman asked to throw a second line we were not expecting, just for visual interest). And, even more thankfully, they spared the indignity of showing my bum as I bent over, posterior almost touching the camera lens, and pumped out the vacuum stretcher for transferring the rather attractive casualty to the lifeboat. The short video can be seen here.

Bateau-ventouse

Antibes is a port where there is an uneasy stand-off between the needs of the grand super-yachts and those of the petite plaisance, the tiddlers and potterers. The management of the Port Vauban, who have the contract from the town to run it, are always complaining about the phenomenon of the 'bateau-ventouse', which you could approximately if appropriately translate as barnacle boat.

These are the boats which are permanently tied up, using precious port space, but whose owners are deaf to pleas to rid the port of the eyesores. Some of them are even lived in.

One such bateau-ventouse was moored just where the port battlements separate from the ramparts, just a stone's throw from the Gravette beach. The old man who lived on it, in appalling conditions, was fed by the meals-on-wheels service of the town, with the trays passed gingerly across the water towards the grubby claw with inch-long fingernails which darted out to grab it.

This weekend, however, even the barnacle boats have to be moved to where they cannot be seen. So the wreck was unceremoniously towed from its prime location and berthed, almost next to the lifeboat, between a very slick sailing yacht and a rather nice motorboat. There was something especially Antibes-like about this juxtaposition of rotten timbers and razzle-dazzle.

Then the creature emerged from his lair. Complaining...

It turned out that the tow had been none too gentle (a hint from the impatient port authorities perhaps?) and had ripped off a sizeable chunk of the stern, including an antediluvian outboard engine, now in the drink. Could the Sauveteurs en Mer save his outboard? It was like a shout, really.

We duly cut away the wreckage, put hauling lines on the outboard and the tangle of torn railings, and fished the lot out of the port. He thanked us with a bottle of vodka, of dubious appearance and indeterminate age, which promptly got locked in the station fridge.

It seems that the old gent was once a spick and span yacht captain, pacing immaculate decks in his spotless uniform. Then he took to drink and became an armed bodyguard for some local politician whose way of conducting affairs required the permanent company of somebody willing to carry a loaded Colt automatic and with the reputation of knowing when to release the safety-catch.

Since then, he had been seriously ill, but living on this relic of the early days of plywood and putty.

The people you meet once you don the orange jersey...

Beggarman

Just finished manning the SNSM stand at the Underwater Photography exhibition at the Fort Carré. Charlie, Lucien, Jean-Charles, Nicolas and Alain were also there, and a pretty boring time for everyone it was, too.

For some reason, French people assume that the lifeboat service is state-run, and, since they pay their taxes (well, a lot of them around here don't, one way and another), there is absolutely no need to dip into their pockets. Mean sods, on the whole...

It felt like begging, as people avoided eye contact with us and subtly changed direction so as not to be within hailing distance. The only people with an open mind, and a genuine curiosity, were the kids. Talking to them far outweighed, in terms of satisfaction, the ennui of dealing with their parents.