of the nearby yacht club to bring them back to Italy. It made a different noise, more like a soft, rhythmic
whoosh,
and I mused that for incredibly wealthy people even helicopter noise can be engineered for maximum comfort.
Il Dottore
and
la Signora
waved as they circled over the boat before heading east. Then we cleaned the deck and Michele arranged for us to have dinner in town with lots of rosé to celebrate a job well done.
Day one with the owners, and I survived, though I hoped that my daily tasks would become more habitual. I needed to master all the lines, knots, coils, hand signals, and procedures so I could maintain the demanding balance between cooking and sailing.
That night, back at the boat, I had a sinking feeling when Rick told me that from scraps of conversation he had overheard from the cockpit, he guessed that the owners would be entertaining a lot this summer. Running out of food was something I simply could not let happen. But I pushed these concerns out of my head as I ended the day sitting on the bowsprit all the way forward and enjoying a nightcap. I felt a certain degree of elation while looking aft along the convex lines of the deck, like barrel staves, on this restored beauty—like the high you experience after a vigorous workout.
A few days later
Rick showed me the veritable bank vault of service ware that
la Signora
had been sending from Paris and Milan: Baccarat glasses, hotel-weight Ginori china, and Sambonet silver cutlery, serving pieces, and platters. There were table decorations and a beautiful caviar bowl made of heavy glass crystal from Lalique. Two handblown Murano glass vases were anchored in the corners behind the banquette. Patrick later told me they were extremely costly. To think this was all for everyday use. The Bernardaud porcelain for formal dining was kept in a separate cabinet in the salon. It was also hotel weight, which was better suited for use at sea since it was a little heavier than standard home china. The complete set was personalized with detailing that replicated the decorative blue line pattern that was painted along the hull of the boat.
While we were sorting through the platters, Rick finally convinced me that I would deeply regret not experiencing all the Côte d’Azur had to offer. He reminded me that now was the time because once we began cruising, the opportunity would be lost.
“Lighten up,” he had said to me on more than one occasion. “You need to check it out. It’s good, good, good!” By then, I was in decent shape in the galley and even starting to feel a little cabin fever. So we jumped in the old hatchback Peugeot crew car and headed to the Cap. We drove on some of the exclusive residential streets, and Rick pointed out the perfectly manicured villas whose owners he knew of, all flanked by beautiful French landscaping. “Here is the famous Hotel du Cap Eden-Roc—rooms are eight hundred bucks a night and they only take cash.” He said the word “cash” with deep inflection, almost with reverence. We weren’t in the car five more minutes when Rick returned to his familiar refrain, “How about we stop by Plage Keller for a couple of hours?”
We came around a bend on a coastal road, and in front of us was a long, secluded inlet. “This is la Garoupe,” Rick proudly declared. There were five or six beach clubs next to each other at the end of the cove. Along both sides were a couple of villas back from the water’s edge. Small boats were anchored and moored just outside the swimming area, bobbing like fishermen’s floats. The water was turquoise blue with a white sandy bottom. It was quiet, clean, and very civilized. No radios, screams, Frisbees, or plastic coolers of beer.
Rick marched onto the beach like a determined general and rented two
matelas
—comfortable beach chairs lined up in the sand—at the half-day price, about twenty bucks each. I followed in tow, curious to see if the experience would match the
whoosh,
and I mused that for incredibly wealthy people even helicopter noise can be engineered for maximum comfort.
Il Dottore
and
la Signora
waved as they circled over the boat before heading east. Then we cleaned the deck and Michele arranged for us to have dinner in town with lots of rosé to celebrate a job well done.
Day one with the owners, and I survived, though I hoped that my daily tasks would become more habitual. I needed to master all the lines, knots, coils, hand signals, and procedures so I could maintain the demanding balance between cooking and sailing.
That night, back at the boat, I had a sinking feeling when Rick told me that from scraps of conversation he had overheard from the cockpit, he guessed that the owners would be entertaining a lot this summer. Running out of food was something I simply could not let happen. But I pushed these concerns out of my head as I ended the day sitting on the bowsprit all the way forward and enjoying a nightcap. I felt a certain degree of elation while looking aft along the convex lines of the deck, like barrel staves, on this restored beauty—like the high you experience after a vigorous workout.
A few days later
Rick showed me the veritable bank vault of service ware that
la Signora
had been sending from Paris and Milan: Baccarat glasses, hotel-weight Ginori china, and Sambonet silver cutlery, serving pieces, and platters. There were table decorations and a beautiful caviar bowl made of heavy glass crystal from Lalique. Two handblown Murano glass vases were anchored in the corners behind the banquette. Patrick later told me they were extremely costly. To think this was all for everyday use. The Bernardaud porcelain for formal dining was kept in a separate cabinet in the salon. It was also hotel weight, which was better suited for use at sea since it was a little heavier than standard home china. The complete set was personalized with detailing that replicated the decorative blue line pattern that was painted along the hull of the boat.
While we were sorting through the platters, Rick finally convinced me that I would deeply regret not experiencing all the Côte d’Azur had to offer. He reminded me that now was the time because once we began cruising, the opportunity would be lost.
“Lighten up,” he had said to me on more than one occasion. “You need to check it out. It’s good, good, good!” By then, I was in decent shape in the galley and even starting to feel a little cabin fever. So we jumped in the old hatchback Peugeot crew car and headed to the Cap. We drove on some of the exclusive residential streets, and Rick pointed out the perfectly manicured villas whose owners he knew of, all flanked by beautiful French landscaping. “Here is the famous Hotel du Cap Eden-Roc—rooms are eight hundred bucks a night and they only take cash.” He said the word “cash” with deep inflection, almost with reverence. We weren’t in the car five more minutes when Rick returned to his familiar refrain, “How about we stop by Plage Keller for a couple of hours?”
We came around a bend on a coastal road, and in front of us was a long, secluded inlet. “This is la Garoupe,” Rick proudly declared. There were five or six beach clubs next to each other at the end of the cove. Along both sides were a couple of villas back from the water’s edge. Small boats were anchored and moored just outside the swimming area, bobbing like fishermen’s floats. The water was turquoise blue with a white sandy bottom. It was quiet, clean, and very civilized. No radios, screams, Frisbees, or plastic coolers of beer.
Rick marched onto the beach like a determined general and rented two
matelas
—comfortable beach chairs lined up in the sand—at the half-day price, about twenty bucks each. I followed in tow, curious to see if the experience would match the
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