Nine Summers Read online

  The solution to the gas bottles was in sight, the hose problem was solved, and adapting the inverter had reached the ‘peut-être’ stage. Only the electrics were still in the ‘too hard’ basket. The relaxed atmosphere of the little town suited us — the routine of fresh baguettes for breakfast, lunch and dinner, the midi ‘bon appétit, bon appétit’, the brilliant idea of a three-hour siesta. We continued to buy in bulk at the market, where a number of people now took personal interest in how our new cuisine was progressing.

  ‘Isn’t life just great!’ I squeezed Felix’s arm as he lugged our purchases along the marina.

  Although our tempo had slowed down to match that of the people around us, much to our amazement we realised that we had just about completed Galatea’s commissioning, and were almost ready to haul the sails.

  ‘We’ll need to go to Cap d’Agde for the antifouling. It’s only a short sail from here. There’s a new marina with all the modern facilities there. And the girl at the office said there’s a Language Institute there as well. They offer a two-week crash course in French. So shall we go and arrange both?’

  ‘Sure, but that girl said our French has improved so much. Do you think they’ll employ us as teachers?’

  ‘Ho, ho,’ Felix smirked.

  Spit and polish had cleaned up Galatea inside and out. Our geranium, chive, basil and mint pots were tied in place, the barbecue was ready for use. Olivades cushions we had brought from Sydney added colour to the beige bunks and created a Provençal atmosphere in the saloon. In the aft cabin, where we slept, the double bunk was covered with a navy patterned bedspread with matching pillows and cushions.

  Bookshelves lining the port side of the saloon were filled with reference books, sailing and technical manuals, water pilots, travel books, history books, novels and, above all, books such as Fernand Braudel’s The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, the book that had inspired our idea of sailing from port to port; Julius Norwich’s books Venice, Byzantium and The Normans in Sicily; Jan Morris’s books on Venice, as well as books we had wanted to read for years, such as Proust’s A la recherche du temps perdu. There were more bookshelves in the aft and forward cabins.

  Both sides of the saloon were lined with tapes of all the CDs and records we had enjoyed at home. The teak panels, the cushions, the gold carpet and oil lamps, all contributed to the warm glow of our cocoon. And with it, we hoped, to a sense of stability wherever we found ourselves. There was nothing frugal about the lifestyle on which we were about to embark.

  ****

  Then the day we had dreamed of for 35 years dawned. After four weeks, at midday on a blue, blue day, we set sail from the Société Nautique, Mole Saint Louis, Sète. We farewelled the people at the club, raised the gangplank and backed out of the berth, motoring to the exit of the harbour on our way to Cap d’Agde.

  Felix hoisted all three sails — the mizzen, main and headsail — and as we turned off the engine, an enormous sense of exhilaration, tinged with disbelief, overwhelmed us. Felix put his arms around me. Two seagulls saluted, followed us a short way, then turned back to port. The sea was calm and a 10-knot breeze swept us along. Galatea’s bow cut through the water and, like her namesake, she came to life. Mist veiled the shore, but the sky was a cloudless china blue. A small sloop crossed our path and waved. Our sails billowed in the breeze and the chorus of ‘Ode to Joy’ reverberated around us as we toasted the sea, the sun, the wind and our new life with Dom Perignon.

  We sailed along the flat coastline, the outer shores of the Etang de Thau until, through the haze, Mont d’Agde appeared behind the new complex that was Cap d’Agde. At the entrance to the new port, a mariner from the capitainerie, the harbour office, guided us to a berth.

  While Sète had the aura of a romantic old Mediterranean fishing town, Cap d’Agde was new and unromantic. It was one of several marina complexes known as ports de plaisance, built in the 1960s and 1970s along the coastline between Marseilles and the Spanish border.

  Their marinas were large, cheaper than elsewhere in the northern Mediterranean and packed with yachts that rarely left their berths. Their owners lived as far away as Paris, Milan, Amsterdam or Zurich, and visited when they could, which for many was not often. These ports had all the paraphernalia of new tourist developments which, apart from the few weeks of high season, were a landscape of near-empty tables under multicoloured sun umbrellas; sad waiters waiting for a tourist to order a drink, a pizza, a toasted sandwich; ice-cream parlours, takeaways and discos. From early morning, the scent of food filled the air. Gaudy bikinis and beachwear hung on racks outside shops lining the esplanade. With hands behind their backs, owners stood in doorways, perusing the scene, waiting for customers.

  Music boomed to dispel the sadness of an almost deserted resort, which only filled with frenetic people in search of sun and fun during the summer holiday period.

  ‘Just as well we’re only here for two weeks,’ Felix said. ‘Let’s get the bus to Sète tomorrow and pick up the car. We can visit places near here, like Old Agde and Béziers. We could also drive along the Canal de Midi.’

  So, we picked up our car and parked it near Galatea. Two boats arrived at the same time and tied up next to us. On board one were two excitable white poodles, on the other a bad-tempered dachshund and a gentle Labrador. Felix jumped ashore to catch their lines, while I fended them off Galatea. The two couples were French, in their late 20s and 30s, fashionably attired in designer resort wear. The women were coiffed and manicured, the men’s hair was carefully trimmed. They were polite and thanked us, then went ashore to decant the dogs, who were just as well groomed.

  For the French, dressing with style is important, but they also express their personalities in the adornments they shower on their dogs. Collars come in varieties of designs, frequently decorated with studs or diamantes. For additional panache, however, bright neck scarves (often matching the mistress’s) are deemed suitable resort wear.

  In the middle of their first night on board, one of the dogs started to bark. Within minutes there was a chorus of howling. Soon after, we heard the couples having serious words with the animals on deck.

  But it was not until we heard dogs and humans chasing each other on our deck that we emerged into the bedlam. I saw both couples running around stark naked, chasing dogs over and under rails.

  ‘Oh, pardon, pardon,’ I said, unable to stop myself gaping. Felix laughed.

  Chasing dogs stark naked in the moonlight caused the dog owners no embarrassment. Their only concern was the barking. ‘Ah, mon dieu, l’abaiement, the barking, c’est terrible. Vraiment desolé. Truly sorry…’

  ‘Ah, c’est de rien, it’s nothing,’ we assured them.

  ‘Do you think they saw anything funny in all this?’ I asked Felix when we went back to bed.

  ‘Not really. It’s the sort of thing the English would think funny — Fawlty Towers stuff.’

  The following morning they asked us to join them for coffee. The night’s events hardly rated a mention.

  On the day Galatea went on the slips to have her bottom anti-fouled and painted, we started our French classes. For the following two weeks, we spent each morning at the Institute de Langue in a class with two English women who had come to Cap d’Agde to holiday and improve their French.

  Each morning we covered a new topic, concentrating on areas of greatest importance to tourists: restaurants, hotels, shops and asking directions. The two weeks passed quickly, and by the last day we felt we had learnt a lot. There was only one topic we still had to cover — a medical emergency. What do you do when you have an accident? How do you address doctors and nurses?

  Felix and I were too excited about our imminent departure to take much notice, and the two English women seemed just as uninterested, so the teacher agreed to finish early. The five of us set off for a farewell drink and a final chat in French. We laughed a lot, and our teacher Madame Renard told us how well we’d done.

  ‘Now that o
ur French is entirely to our satisfaction, and all the work on Galatea is finished, the only thing we have to do is have the car serviced in Sète, and we’re ready to take off.’ Felix announced.

  ‘So this is it,’ I said in disbelief.

  ‘Can we leave the car with you for a service, Madame Thomas?’

  ‘Ah, bien sûr, of course.’ Madame Thomas burst into a broad smile. When she wasn’t sitting in her tiny office writing notes about repairs needed for cars in her care, Madame Thomas walked about with a spray bottle and a rag, cleaning windscreens. She loved her garage with proprietorial affection. She was a short and plump, cheerful woman, who knew everything about everyone. She was, we sensed, an institution in Sète.

  ‘We’ll pick up the car in a few days, when we’re somewhere along the French Riviera,’ we continued. ‘Tomorrow we leave for Port Camargue, but we’ll phone you before we come.’

  ‘C’est bon, c’est bon. Alors, bon voyage et bonne chance.’ She waved as we left to take a bus back to Cap d’Agde.

  That evening we spent a long time looking at charts, plotting our course, entering it on the satnav and familiarising ourselves with the entry, depths and port plan of Port Camargue, our destination.

  ‘Should we bother with the depths of any other entrances on the way?’

  ‘No point. We’re not stopping anywhere. We’re going straight to Port Camargue.’ Felix got up and looked around. ‘Well, we’ve just about covered everything.’

  ‘I guess we should go to bed now,’ I said.

  I tossed and turned much of the night and kept Felix awake. At 2 we gave up trying to sleep and had tea and toast, looked at the sky and listened to the latest forecast. By 4, I was exhausted and went back to bed. Felix woke me at 8. We dressed quickly, had a light breakfast, admired the clear sky, took deep breaths and looked at each other.

  ‘I wonder where we’ll be in a week or a month or a year?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, I wonder,’ Felix answered.

  We backed out of our berth on a bright Saturday in July and waved to people along the quay and the marina. As we motored past the entrance lights to Cap d’Agde and out to sea, a seagull perched on a yellow buoy beat its wings and folded them again.

  With Galatea turned into the wind, Felix hauled up all three sails, then stepped back into the cockpit. I set the compass to 63 degrees, switched off the engine and put her on autohelm. We were on a broad reach in a fresh breeze, making a steady 4 knots. The passage to Port Camargue promised to be, as the French say, une promenade. The sky was a misty sapphire speckled with gauzy clouds. The only sound was the hiss of water and the billowing of sails.

  Flocks of sea birds drifted in circles over the beaches and out to sea. To port, a string of beaches unfurled as we sailed past. Sun umbrellas in bright reds, blues and yellows dotted the sand. Bathers on shore and in the water tossed balls and balloons into the air. Multicoloured sailboards pirouetted on waves and festive music drifted out to sea. It was a blissful summer’s day.

  We were too moved by the occasion to speak. After some time, I shook myself. ‘Lunch?’ I asked Felix.

  ‘How about a bottle of Australian red I brought specially for today?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like a Grange Hermitage.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘How could I kid on an occasion such as this?’

  ‘I’ll bring up anything you care to mention. At the charcuterie they thought I was buying up the shop.’

  Felix stepped down the companionway into the saloon, lifted the floorboards, hauled the bottle from our cellar and turned on what was to become our theme tune, ‘Ode to Joy’, opened the bottle, spread his arms and started to conduct as we sang along.

  Freude, Schöner Götterfunken

  Tochter aus Elysium…

  Joy, beautiful spark of the Gods

  Daughter of Elysium…

  I cut the baguette, sliced salami, placed unwrapped cheeses and pâtés onto a platter, and prepared a salad of tomatoes, buffalo cheese, basil and oil. And for dessert, a basket of cherries, a strong-smelling cheese called Pont L’Evêque, fruit tartlets and nougat chocolates.

  ‘Smells fantastic, even the Pont L’Evêque.’ Felix stopped conducting to give me a hug. Plumes of light spray swept our faces, the sea rippled and the wake gurgled.

  It was a long, unhurried lunch. We looked at each other, held hands, drank the Grange and gazed at the scene around us. When we’d emptied the bottle, eaten the tartlets and had coffee and chocolates, Felix went downstairs.

  ‘…be back in a minute.’

  Meanwhile, I cleared the plates and folded the table. The wind had steadily strengthened. I alternated between elation and fear. Can this be true? Is this really the start of our grand adventure? If only the kids could see us! I couldn’t sit still. In need of something to do, I took sights and checked our course, gazed at the sea, the sky and the coastline with such intensity, it was as if I were trying to imprint every detail of this day on my mind. Galatea was flying, our wake unravelling like a rope.

  ‘Hey, Puss, look at this! A steady 7 to 8 knots! What a ride!’

  He didn’t hear me. Where was he? Still downstairs. The wind continued to strengthen. It was now blowing 15 to 20 and we were beginning to yaw. I pulled in the headsail and the main to steady her.

  ‘Hey, Puss, come out! See what you’re missing! This is our first day!’

  I stood at the helm and heard several unusual thumps. They seemed to come from the aft cabin, behind me. At first I took no notice, but they grew more persistent, as if something was loose, banging on the cabin hatch that opened onto the cockpit.

  ‘Puss, something’s loose. Something’s banging in the aft cabin. Have a look!’ I shouted. Surely he must have heard. I waited, then I heard it again. A persistent ‘thump, thump…’

  I slid back the horizontal hatch and saw Felix slumped against the short ladder and the vertical hatch. His face was grey, vomit dripping from his mouth and chin onto his T-shirt.

  ‘Oh my God! Puss, it’s you!’ I pulled out the hatch board, gripped him under the arms to lift him into the cockpit. He was too heavy and started to slide back into the cabin. I bent to grip him around the chest, hauled him over the hatch rail and dragged him onto the cockpit seat. He heaved, tried to throw up, wanted to say something. His speech was a garbled whisper I didn’t understand. Then I did.

  ‘Having stroke, radio…Mayday...help…losing speech…take down sails…’

  I was terrified he’d choke on vomit. I turned him onto his side and clicked his safety harness into a cockpit bolt. His eyes were closed. I panicked. Was he unconscious?

  ‘Dear God! What shall I do?’ I cried out. Then I started to give myself orders.

  Mayday. Must send a Mayday! I rushed down the gangway, turned on the radio.

  ‘Mayday, Mayday, Mayday…This is Galatea. Golf Alfa Lima Alfa Tango Echo Alfa…Victor Juliet, Five Four Nine Four, Position 43.28, 4.02, south of Palavas. Need immediate assistance. My husband is having a stroke!’

  An instant reply: ‘Galatea…Galatea, ne comprends…ne comprends. Don’t understand.’

  Oh, God! I don’t know the word for stroke, what should I say? Try heart attack.

  ‘Mon mari…un attaque cardiaque…un attaque cardiaque très, très grave!’

  This can’t be real. I can’t stay at the radio. Have to take down the sails. I looked into the cockpit. Felix was still on his side, vomiting onto the cockpit floor. The wind continued to intensify. I switched off the autohelm, turned Galatea into the wind to take down the sails. I grabbed the winch handle and rolled up the headsail.

  I heard the radio again. ‘Nous ne trouvons pas votre bateau. Combien de metres? De quelle couleur? We can’t find your boat. How many metres? What colour?’ I tore past Felix. He looked terrible, but I couldn’t stop to help him. I rushed back to the radio. Why can’t they find us?

  ‘Treize metres, blanc, deux mâts, pavilion Australien, mon mari très très malad
! Thirteen metres, white, two masts, Australian flag, my husband is very very ill!’

  I dashed up to the cockpit and pushed Felix further onto his side. I hauled in the boom, turned Galatea into the wind again, clipped my safety harness onto the jackstay, jumped onto the cabin top, leaned against the mast, grabbed the winch handle and rolled the main down, got back into the cockpit and tightened the boom. The wind continued to strengthen, we were pitching from side to side and going off the wind. I turned on the engine, swung the helm hard into the wind to steady her and put her on autohelm.

  I leant over Felix. ‘Puss, I’ve sent out the Mayday. They’ve heard me. They’re looking for us. I’ve taken down the main and the headsail. Puss, please, please, Puss, don’t leave me.’

  He’d stopped vomiting, but wasn’t moving. Dear God, help me!

  I couldn’t tell if he was conscious. My chest thumped, my temples pounded, but my hands remained steady. I climbed onto the aft cabin top. With legs astride for balance, I took down the mizzen. All the sails were now down. I heard a propeller above me. At last! I saw a red helicopter approach, with a man dangling at the end of a rope. The radio came on and I heard a voice in English: ‘Galatea. We see you, doctor coming.’

  The helicopter now hovered above us. The doctor, suspended on a rope, and swinging from side to side, tried to land on deck. Galatea’s masts swayed in 90-degree arcs. With legs wide apart on the aft deck, I tried to balance and grab his foot. Twice I touched his toes, twice I lost them. Was this really happening? The wind continued to stiffen, blowing force 5 to 6. Galatea wallowed in the rising swell. The doctor spun between the two masts like a trapeze artist. ‘Oh God, don’t let him get caught in the stays.’ The radio came on again: ‘Galatea, this is no good. Too strong wind. We do something...’

  I didn’t understand the rest. Dear God, don’t let them leave me, please don’t let them leave me! But they were leaving.

  ‘No!’ I screamed when I saw the helicopter move away. Then I heard the faint purr of an engine. I turned. A boat was speeding towards us. Thank goodness! They’ve called a patrol boat. The helicopter hovered over it, the doctor landed on its deck. The boat sped towards us, and came alongside Galatea. I passed them a line. The doctor, slim, barefoot and carrying a rucksack, climbed on board. A heavy, muscular man followed him, took the helm and told me he was the harbour pilot.