Beeped

After radiotherapy (a fair old whack, judging by the noises and wheezes coming from the machine), I spent a pleasant afternoon working on the Caribe, trying to reconstruct the anchor winch. Then, as sometimes happens in Antibes, somebody stopped by and offered a pointu, with motor, for nothing. We told the guy to bring it to the lifeboat station.

Lulu and I went there to help moor the boat. As we were tying up, the lifeboat pagers went off. So we abandoned the boat and went into 'shout' routine. Off into the increasing gloom, some ten nautical miles off Nice, to tow back a large motor yacht which had lost all power, both engines and generator. Took some finding, as there are a lot of radar echoes, what with the port traffic, the aircraft flying low, and the ferries.

Still, we found her, finally, dead in the water and rolling quite violently beam on to the swell. This was the first time I had to cast a heaving line for real. Ticklish, given the movement of the two boats in three dimensions. A matter of timing as well as aim. I was very relieved that it was spot on, first pass. Lolo1's patient instruction paid off, evidently.

The trip back was long and boring, as usual, as we were much reduced in speed (7kts instead of 25kts). The deck crew, apart from the deputy cox, steering, was effectively two grandfathers: the third grandpops was keeping radar/radio watch. We managed OK, despite a combined age well in excess of the limits set down in the SNSM regulations.

Took some photos the next morning: they had run out of fuel, but not of Spanish beer (click on the photo of the stern, and look at the ladder).

Makes you forget the hum and whine of the X-ray machines...

How about a slip jig next time

After the by now routine session of being microwaved (that's exactly the sound it makes) at Mougins, I spent the afternoon painting the Caribe. Lots of people passed by, and I wondered why nearly all of them, particularly the schoolkids, started enthusing madly. It wasn't us wrinklies, in various undignified postures - and possible builder's cleavage - who made them ooh and aah. It was the ship's dog, Choco, who was doing a decidedly neat hornpipe on his hind legs. He deserved all the photos he was getting. Haven't yet seen him doing steps in 9/8 time, though...

Time of mellow fruitlessness

Because the radiation treatment I am presently undergoing is likely to harm, temporarily, the lining of my gut, I have been told to follow a strict diet. Out go fruit and vegetables, bread, smelly cheeses, spices, pretty well all the reasons for finding Mediterranean life rather agreeable. In come prodigious quantities of bland stuff: rice above all, pasta (not wholemeal), couscous etc., but without the bonus of a nice tasty sauce. The effect, in terms of reduction of what is politely termed 'bulk residue', is quite dramatic. To top it all, I have to consume very large amounts of water. So what time I save in cutting down on solid evacuation I make up for and more in the other, liquid one.

Protein inputs, on the other hand, have to be increased substantially, but not fried or greasy. However, when this means putting up with simply baked, plain, ultra-fresh mackerel, stiffly straight off the boat, it isn't too much of a penance. Even without the horseradish or gooseberries...

Other than that, morale is good and time spent on the boats is uplifting as well as healthy.

Beam me up, Scotty...

That's it: I've started the course of radiotherapy at Mougins, and I feel strangely relieved.

The first session was friendly, supportive and slick. I was through the changing room, placed under the radiation, got back in my clothes and was out in less than twenty minutes. The only visible sign of my passage through the system was a series of colour splashes with a felt-tip pen, highlighting the tattoos used for aiming the beams of radiation.

The one thing that shocked me, however, was seeing how many people were being lined up for treatment. It puts one's personal predicament into stark perspective.