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...