Beepless Alert

I had a rendez-vous at the Lifeboat Station. Michel, Lulu and Yours Truly were to get a small outboard-driven RIB into working order and cross the port to bring it to the old fishing boat we are restoring.

Arriving there, I found quite a few lifeboatmen listening anxiously to the VHF. There had been an aircraft accident out at sea, and a large-scale SAR mission was under way. We were on standby, the next level down from a 'shout'. So our beepers hadn't sounded. The radio traffic between the aircraft, helicopters and search vessels was none too optimistic. A few unidentified debris, perhaps not even from an aeroplane.

It began to look unlikely that we would be tasked, so Lulu and I took the RIB across the harbour and moored it next to the fishing vessel. Checked the fishing boat's VHF for any further developments, and then headed back to the Lifeboat Station.

When we got back, there was black humour galore. The plane had been found, and also, sadly, the bodies of the people on board (British, apparently). But it had crashed into a mountain, not into the sea. It was not a place we could easily go with the lifeboat, even if tasked, so we were stood down.

Family Ties

Just back from a visit to Brussels to see part of the family. In the dark days this winter, prowling none too elegantly the corridor of the surgical unit in Mougins with a urine bag and two vacuum drains in tow, I thought this moment wouldn't come round again. But it did, and it felt doubly precious.

Brussels felt as live-able as ever, and seeing everybody was a joy. I can't think of anything less like a chore than taking kids to the park.

La semaine du golfe

Just back from a week's (lateen) sailing in the sheltered but very tidal inland sea of the Morbihan. The occasion was the 'Semaine du Golfe', and the opportunity to sail was provided by the jolly crowd from CaraMed, which brings together all the nutcases who want to sail on traditional mediterranean craft. It felt funny, as a Welshman, to be representing the Med in Brittany.

Still, we brought mediterranean weather with us, swapping it, apparently, for Breton-style damp and cold which hovered over Antibes the whole week we were up north.

I sailed on the Catalina, a lovely blue and yellow pointu with a nice turn of speed. The only time she let us down was when motoring to a difficult berth with a six-knot tide. We missed the sound of splintering wood only by a liberal dose of heaving, rowing and fendering. Still, it was fun...

The final parade of boats was madness, with the current rendering most craft unmanoeuvrable, and the indiscipline of some crews creating really dangerous situations. Some boats were sunk, and certainly a few injuries were tallied up. Our friends in the SNSM up there were kept really busy.

Boatyard for Brittany

Tomorrow I'm off to the Morbihan with CaraMed, an umbrella organisation grouping together various local associations of historic small craft of the Mediterranean. We were going to take the Virginie, a Corsican felouque, and we had spent the last week scraping and painting her so that she would be pretty and watertight for her moment of glory. But at the last minute there was a hitch in the transport arrangements for her, and so we are going to cadge a ride on the other boats. This suits me, as quite a lot of them are lateen rigged, and I am really curious to see how they behave. I suspect not that well behaved...

The picture shows the Virginie being lifted out of the water. The crane driver and his female side-kick were fantastic: it takes real skill not to kill people in a situation like this. Working in a dockyard is unbelievably hard work, but repaid by a real sense of solidarity with the others working there.

Today, surprisingly late in the season, we had our first shout. I had been at the station, trying to repair the ravages of a diesel spill on all our ropes and hawsers (and we have a lot of them). Meanwhile, the cox was on the roof, seeing to the replacement of the navigation lights. The lifeboat secretary had come round, too, with his daughter and her family, and was dealing with the usual headaches of running a station.

Suddenly, the radio and the telephone hotted up. Problem off the Lérins, as usual. Boat had spent the day in paradise, then the motor wouldnt start, and they had drifted into the channel. Not a good place to be, especially once the mad traffic of the return to Cannes had started. We were ordered to intervene, as we had sufficient oomph (or maybe here "va va vroom") to give the tub a decent tow.

So, for the first time since the engine overhaul, the turbochargers really kicked in, and at 1,900 rpm, we sped at 25 knots into the sunset. The tow was without drama, except for the beautiful people gaping at us from the decks of the superyachts. On the way back, we had one or two underwater moments, as we passed through the wake of some pretty big, and certainly very fast, superyachts. I think Charlie is going to be on hosepipe duty pretty soon. We've shipped a fair poundage of salt crystals.

Le 8 mai, Place Général de Gaulle

The downside of being a lifeboatman...

We had to assemble, alongside other 'instances officielles', to listen to execrable renderings of the 'Marseillaise', the 'Chant du départ' and the '2ème Division Blindée' delivered by the Harmonie-Fanfare of the City of Antibes and the cathedral choir (each competing to be more out-of-tune and off-the-beat than the other), interspersed with crude reworkings of history in the official speeches. Basically, mon général won the war single-handed, and France was awash with 'honneur'. The enemy had been 'hacked to bits'. Gruesome stuff, even if fiction. I wriggled a bit hearing it...

The only decent speech was the one given by the mayor, who celebrated the fact that Germans and French had subsequently been peaceful, good neighbours for over sixty years, and hinted, at some cost to his popularity amongst the képi brigade, that perhaps France owed its liberation (not victory) to the sacrifice of many young Americans' lives.

Our place in the ranks was next to the Police Municipale, which shows, eloquently, where we stand in the pecking order...

Entitled...

Well, not quite. What has actually happened is that my year's apprenticeship on the lifeboat as a trainee has paid off, and I am now a registered crewman (équipier/canotier titulaire). A good feeling, especially as the training was already largely helping people in distress.

I haven't yet got my official ID, but I noticed that on the lifeboat's official roster, kept in the wheelhouse, my name has 'équipier titulaire' and not 'équipier en formation' (trainee) next to it.

Notice the artful way the SNSM lifeboat flag decides to unfurl dramatically against the sunlight as I take the picture of the roster. You can click on the picture, twice, to read the list in enlargement (I'm last, but it is alphabetical).