EME
Active member
The Engine
We slip slowly out of the bay without any further problems and head back towards Golfe Juan. No more than a minute after I have got our trusted stead on the plane, I hear a little coughing behind me. Turning around I see that the M-I-L, who is sat on the sun bed/engine cover, is engulfed in putrid engine fumes and is pretending to be unable to breathe.
I resist the temptation to laugh and concentrate on forward motion.
It at this point that something hard hits me from behind. When I recover my senses I am pleased to see that TB has been fortunate enough to stop the boat, take the helm and shut off the engine. She also may have been exposed to the smoke …. At least she is looking very grim. It is suggested by someone that maybe it would be a good idea to have a look at the engine; before I can argue to the contrary the F-I-L has raised the hatch and is down in the engine bay. Sheett, I couldn’t move that fast when I was twenty.
It is obvious that I need to reconfirm my authority over this crew. I take station over the engine bay and peer into the gloom. There are lots of muttered curses emanating from the hole, and some screaming in French about not opening the water inlet valves. This I can obviously ignore, what does the old fool think I should do? Sink the boat by letting water onboard!
After a few minutes, he asks for the engine to be restarted. I do this and wander back to my perch on the transom. It is at this point that F-I-L discovers how to take control of the throttle from the engine room. Unfortunately his methodology is trial and error and as the boat lurches forward a couple of metres I am tossed rearward like a sack of spuds. My entry into the water will not get me in any Olympic diving squad; suffice to say I am not very happy.
Finding the swim ladder I regain my position on the boat and, looking like a mythical sea monster I am about to commit my first act of euthanasia. TB looks at me with one of those looks and I calm down. Totally oblivious to the carnage that he has caused F-I-L resurfaces from the engine bay and declares that there is nothing more that he can do and we should just go back slowly to port.
I could have told him that !!! He just wanted to play !! TB and M-I-L are treating him as a hero. As neither of them are paying me any attention whatsoever I return to the helm. I discover that by keeping the engine revs at around 2000 I can minimise the effect on the ozone layer and we limp slowly back towards Golfe Juan.
The rest of the trip is really quite boring.
We arrive back at Golfe Juan , and like Napoleon all those years before us , we prepare to retake France for ourselves. You see, according to French history, Old Boney after his first whipping from the Brits and incarceration on Corsica arrived back at this friendly port with his small army; apparently it isn’t recorded whether he had a Fairline or Sunseeker at the time. What you can guarantee is that he must have been planning the event for ages because the waiting list for berths is pure hell. I digress. French history dictates that he then took his small army to Lyons on foot and surprised the Brits by arriving in Lyons 36 hrs later. …… WHAT a LYING git…… the route is straight over the Alps. I’ve driven it for fun on tarmac roads and it took me 7 hrs to get to Lyons. Just goes to prove you cannot trust those French to tell the truth. Tony Blair please note.
Our arrival at the fuel pontoon does not go unnoticed. My approach is being governed by unknown sideways forces and the attendant demands a spring. While the F-I-L dives into the toolbox that he has managed to find, the attendant rushes forward with a large ball fender. The resultant pop as Cranchi tries to join Concrete is quite loud, indeed M-I- L shrieks, it really is amazing the poor quality of chandlery goods in France.
Having duly refuelled we potter back to the berth. The agence seems to have had a premonition of our arrival and is waiting at the dockside. I appreciate that as I am down to 3 serviceable fenders that a little extra care is required. There is a lot of shouting going on from my crew and I am particularly perturbed that the M-I-L has armed herself with the boathook and stationed herself right behind me.
Monsieur Le Agence asks F-I- L to throw him ‘Ze rope with ze bowline’. I tell the old guy to ignore him as everyone knows that we moor stern-to in France and he really wants a rope with the sternline. I am losing control of the situation. Ropes whistle through the air, TB cuts the engine and for the second time today the little Cranchi is dragged lifeless on to a mooring by the assembled masses.
Negotiation and Debrief
A charter day in France is never complete without a ritual negotiation over the deposit and the returnability thereof: -
My Position:
Hire – 50% of published rate of smaller boat – principle having been previously agreed
Petrol – Refuel 1 to be deducted from refuel 2 ( actual consumption) and refuel 1 repaid to me.
His Position:
Hire – 100% of published rate
Petrol – It was full when you left
Fenders (lost) – 1
Fenders (destroyed) – 3
Damage to hire boats (3) - extensive
Broken windlass
Tear in Sun bed as I clambered back aboard
Knackered engine due overheating – 1
National Guard Call-out fees
This means that we are quite close and we eventually agree final fees and embrace as long lost friends. It is only later that I work out that I have paid an amount amazingly close to the full charter fees, all petrol costs, new fendering and a small contribution to the local capitainerie.
We jump in the car and drop the in-laws off. F-I-L seems to want to do the whole thing again. M-I-L drags him inside. TB smiles sweetly when I suggest that maybe we should wait a week ago before we do it again.
I suppose that’s about it. I guess I’ll just close by repprinting the entry I wrote in my log when I got home.
Boat Position Distance Covered Crew Comments
‘Mea Culpa’ Skipper 46nm Family Uneventful
Fact or Fiction? Let the reader decide
THE END
<hr width=100% size=1><font color=blue>I am WHAT I say I am</font color=blue>
We slip slowly out of the bay without any further problems and head back towards Golfe Juan. No more than a minute after I have got our trusted stead on the plane, I hear a little coughing behind me. Turning around I see that the M-I-L, who is sat on the sun bed/engine cover, is engulfed in putrid engine fumes and is pretending to be unable to breathe.
I resist the temptation to laugh and concentrate on forward motion.
It at this point that something hard hits me from behind. When I recover my senses I am pleased to see that TB has been fortunate enough to stop the boat, take the helm and shut off the engine. She also may have been exposed to the smoke …. At least she is looking very grim. It is suggested by someone that maybe it would be a good idea to have a look at the engine; before I can argue to the contrary the F-I-L has raised the hatch and is down in the engine bay. Sheett, I couldn’t move that fast when I was twenty.
It is obvious that I need to reconfirm my authority over this crew. I take station over the engine bay and peer into the gloom. There are lots of muttered curses emanating from the hole, and some screaming in French about not opening the water inlet valves. This I can obviously ignore, what does the old fool think I should do? Sink the boat by letting water onboard!
After a few minutes, he asks for the engine to be restarted. I do this and wander back to my perch on the transom. It is at this point that F-I-L discovers how to take control of the throttle from the engine room. Unfortunately his methodology is trial and error and as the boat lurches forward a couple of metres I am tossed rearward like a sack of spuds. My entry into the water will not get me in any Olympic diving squad; suffice to say I am not very happy.
Finding the swim ladder I regain my position on the boat and, looking like a mythical sea monster I am about to commit my first act of euthanasia. TB looks at me with one of those looks and I calm down. Totally oblivious to the carnage that he has caused F-I-L resurfaces from the engine bay and declares that there is nothing more that he can do and we should just go back slowly to port.
I could have told him that !!! He just wanted to play !! TB and M-I-L are treating him as a hero. As neither of them are paying me any attention whatsoever I return to the helm. I discover that by keeping the engine revs at around 2000 I can minimise the effect on the ozone layer and we limp slowly back towards Golfe Juan.
The rest of the trip is really quite boring.
We arrive back at Golfe Juan , and like Napoleon all those years before us , we prepare to retake France for ourselves. You see, according to French history, Old Boney after his first whipping from the Brits and incarceration on Corsica arrived back at this friendly port with his small army; apparently it isn’t recorded whether he had a Fairline or Sunseeker at the time. What you can guarantee is that he must have been planning the event for ages because the waiting list for berths is pure hell. I digress. French history dictates that he then took his small army to Lyons on foot and surprised the Brits by arriving in Lyons 36 hrs later. …… WHAT a LYING git…… the route is straight over the Alps. I’ve driven it for fun on tarmac roads and it took me 7 hrs to get to Lyons. Just goes to prove you cannot trust those French to tell the truth. Tony Blair please note.
Our arrival at the fuel pontoon does not go unnoticed. My approach is being governed by unknown sideways forces and the attendant demands a spring. While the F-I-L dives into the toolbox that he has managed to find, the attendant rushes forward with a large ball fender. The resultant pop as Cranchi tries to join Concrete is quite loud, indeed M-I- L shrieks, it really is amazing the poor quality of chandlery goods in France.
Having duly refuelled we potter back to the berth. The agence seems to have had a premonition of our arrival and is waiting at the dockside. I appreciate that as I am down to 3 serviceable fenders that a little extra care is required. There is a lot of shouting going on from my crew and I am particularly perturbed that the M-I-L has armed herself with the boathook and stationed herself right behind me.
Monsieur Le Agence asks F-I- L to throw him ‘Ze rope with ze bowline’. I tell the old guy to ignore him as everyone knows that we moor stern-to in France and he really wants a rope with the sternline. I am losing control of the situation. Ropes whistle through the air, TB cuts the engine and for the second time today the little Cranchi is dragged lifeless on to a mooring by the assembled masses.
Negotiation and Debrief
A charter day in France is never complete without a ritual negotiation over the deposit and the returnability thereof: -
My Position:
Hire – 50% of published rate of smaller boat – principle having been previously agreed
Petrol – Refuel 1 to be deducted from refuel 2 ( actual consumption) and refuel 1 repaid to me.
His Position:
Hire – 100% of published rate
Petrol – It was full when you left
Fenders (lost) – 1
Fenders (destroyed) – 3
Damage to hire boats (3) - extensive
Broken windlass
Tear in Sun bed as I clambered back aboard
Knackered engine due overheating – 1
National Guard Call-out fees
This means that we are quite close and we eventually agree final fees and embrace as long lost friends. It is only later that I work out that I have paid an amount amazingly close to the full charter fees, all petrol costs, new fendering and a small contribution to the local capitainerie.
We jump in the car and drop the in-laws off. F-I-L seems to want to do the whole thing again. M-I-L drags him inside. TB smiles sweetly when I suggest that maybe we should wait a week ago before we do it again.
I suppose that’s about it. I guess I’ll just close by repprinting the entry I wrote in my log when I got home.
Boat Position Distance Covered Crew Comments
‘Mea Culpa’ Skipper 46nm Family Uneventful
Fact or Fiction? Let the reader decide
THE END
<hr width=100% size=1><font color=blue>I am WHAT I say I am</font color=blue>
