level of expectation Rick had set.
“This is the same beach where Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Picasso used to hang out,” Rick said as we got settled. “Lots of good history.” I envisioned writers and painters coming to unwind here after a long day in their studios and dens.
It was the perfect recipe for everything I thought the Riviera would be: the secluded spot, the azure blue of the water, and warm sand giving way underfoot. Then there were the women. Topless in small bikini bottoms and a few in scanty one-piece bathing suits. Their tanning bodies silhouetted against the glistening calm of the Mediterranean Sea.
“Hot, hot, hot,” Rick said as if summarizing what this place was all about. Then he confided, “I like older women. Much more mature.”
I must admit, I had to agree with him. This scene
was
hot. Why did I put off coming here?
My eyes continued to sweep across the tapestry of sun worshippers while I absorbed the seascape in front of me. Everyone seemed to mind their own business. Mostly adults—singles, not too many groups, and a few young families. It was very calm with the occasional sound of small waves splashing against a floating platform in the swimming area. There were tanned men in great shape, all suave with their black thick-rimmed sunglasses. The women were napping, reading French magazines, or chatting with friends. They were clearly comfortable in the surroundings. Rick, as if giving big brother advice, quietly said, “Nothing tacky, okay?” having caught me eyeing a few
dames
that had just come out of the water from a swim.
I watched as the stylish women enjoyed their place in the sun. When it was time to go for a dip, they put their bikini tops on, then after, took a freshwater shower to rinse off the salt water. They walked in the sand back to their
matelas
in what looked like slow motion. They put their hair in a ponytail, took their tops off, and put their sun-glasses back on. A waiter from the beachside café would show up minutes later with a bottle of spring water. The very picture of repose. The only thing missing was “The Girl from Ipanema” playing in the background.
“When are we going back to la Garoupe?” I asked Rick the next morning.
“See, you believe me,” Rick said good-naturedly. “Now maybe you trust me when I tell you about something good.” Having a partner to share in his fun elevated Rick’s mood. He seemed to polish the silver that morning with extra vigor and less complaint.
It is said one can always tell who the cook is on a boat—the one without the tan. From that day on, Rick and I got in the habit of disappearing for a few hours in the afternoon, telling our crewmates we were going shopping. It never occurred to me that after each “shopping” trip I came back increasingly darker. My crew members probably noticed this before I did. And just for cover, I always made sure I came back to the boat with something in my market bags. My rationale was that we were taking a deserved siesta since I’d have to return to make dinner for the crew. Plus, Rick reminded me that when the owners were on board, we would have long workdays both serving and sailing. It didn’t take long to discover that our shared attitudes toward some of the finer things in life were in fact bonding the battery of
Serenity
’s service team. If Rick’s motive was to get on my good side, his methods were solid. Those were some of the best days I have ever spent on a beach.
Michele dropped down the
crew ladder early one morning while most of us were at the mess table. He poured himself a coffee and after a brief greeting declared that we needed to get to the uniform shop
soon
for sizing. “The owners expect everyone to be in formal attire when they are on board from here on.” His tone was expressly boat-manager-like—this was not a suggestion but an order. I decided to go get it over with that morning on my way back from the market.
The
“This is the same beach where Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Picasso used to hang out,” Rick said as we got settled. “Lots of good history.” I envisioned writers and painters coming to unwind here after a long day in their studios and dens.
It was the perfect recipe for everything I thought the Riviera would be: the secluded spot, the azure blue of the water, and warm sand giving way underfoot. Then there were the women. Topless in small bikini bottoms and a few in scanty one-piece bathing suits. Their tanning bodies silhouetted against the glistening calm of the Mediterranean Sea.
“Hot, hot, hot,” Rick said as if summarizing what this place was all about. Then he confided, “I like older women. Much more mature.”
I must admit, I had to agree with him. This scene
was
hot. Why did I put off coming here?
My eyes continued to sweep across the tapestry of sun worshippers while I absorbed the seascape in front of me. Everyone seemed to mind their own business. Mostly adults—singles, not too many groups, and a few young families. It was very calm with the occasional sound of small waves splashing against a floating platform in the swimming area. There were tanned men in great shape, all suave with their black thick-rimmed sunglasses. The women were napping, reading French magazines, or chatting with friends. They were clearly comfortable in the surroundings. Rick, as if giving big brother advice, quietly said, “Nothing tacky, okay?” having caught me eyeing a few
dames
that had just come out of the water from a swim.
I watched as the stylish women enjoyed their place in the sun. When it was time to go for a dip, they put their bikini tops on, then after, took a freshwater shower to rinse off the salt water. They walked in the sand back to their
matelas
in what looked like slow motion. They put their hair in a ponytail, took their tops off, and put their sun-glasses back on. A waiter from the beachside café would show up minutes later with a bottle of spring water. The very picture of repose. The only thing missing was “The Girl from Ipanema” playing in the background.
“When are we going back to la Garoupe?” I asked Rick the next morning.
“See, you believe me,” Rick said good-naturedly. “Now maybe you trust me when I tell you about something good.” Having a partner to share in his fun elevated Rick’s mood. He seemed to polish the silver that morning with extra vigor and less complaint.
It is said one can always tell who the cook is on a boat—the one without the tan. From that day on, Rick and I got in the habit of disappearing for a few hours in the afternoon, telling our crewmates we were going shopping. It never occurred to me that after each “shopping” trip I came back increasingly darker. My crew members probably noticed this before I did. And just for cover, I always made sure I came back to the boat with something in my market bags. My rationale was that we were taking a deserved siesta since I’d have to return to make dinner for the crew. Plus, Rick reminded me that when the owners were on board, we would have long workdays both serving and sailing. It didn’t take long to discover that our shared attitudes toward some of the finer things in life were in fact bonding the battery of
Serenity
’s service team. If Rick’s motive was to get on my good side, his methods were solid. Those were some of the best days I have ever spent on a beach.
Michele dropped down the
crew ladder early one morning while most of us were at the mess table. He poured himself a coffee and after a brief greeting declared that we needed to get to the uniform shop
soon
for sizing. “The owners expect everyone to be in formal attire when they are on board from here on.” His tone was expressly boat-manager-like—this was not a suggestion but an order. I decided to go get it over with that morning on my way back from the market.
The
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