Mediterranean Summer (28 page)

On an evening when
the owners were invited by one of the guests to a restaurant for dinner, the crew took their own well-deserved night on the town. I decided to join them.

We prowled the manicured streets of this jet-set community smitten by the very
per bene
women everywhere, before hopping into taxis to Sottovento, Sardinia’s infamous nightclub. Rick in particular appeared energized, like a long-caged animal finally let loose back in the wild, darting off this way and that, not yet fully confident that he was really free. He said words I had not heard since Antibes: “Hot, hot, hot ’cause it makes you feel good, good, good!” Our old Rick had reappeared, and it elevated the mood of everyone in our group.

I was really relaxed and having a great time in the club, but my cash was evaporating quickly with drinks priced at thirty-five bucks each. I also wished I had better clothes to wear as everyone looked sharp in summer casual attire. Tanned women were in very short colorful dresses, men wore linen slacks and summer knit tops. I would have liked to stay longer, but the responsible side of me took over. I still had to shop for the big party, and I knew that when I woke up less crisp after a late night, my foreign-language skills slowed considerably and it was hard to put thoughts into words. I couldn’t afford that, especially in August. So I made my regrets to everyone, including Rick, who was now anchored next to the bar buying rounds for every woman within hailing distance.

The next morning, while I prepared to make my way to the market, I realized Rick was still not up to start breakfast. I had never known him to oversleep. I went into the fo’c’sle.

“Rick,” I said, shaking him. “What time did you get in?”

“Five-thirty,” he said groggily, his cheeks blotched and puffy, looking like a prizefighter halfway through a tough bout.

“You need to get out there, the owners are almost up.”

“I can’t go out there,” he murmured, burying his head under the pillow.

“Why not?” I became concerned.

Rick recounted his last moments at Sottovento, when the club owner presented him with the bill for the night. Rick was shocked by its size and informed him that he did not have anywhere near the four and a half million lira, about three thousand dollars, with him. He suggested since the money was on the boat, he would come back the next day to settle up. Clearly, the owner of the club had been down this road before, so along with the head bouncer he drove Rick back to
Serenity.
With no resources to pay the tab, Rick was forced to wake
il Dottore,
who came out of his cabin and paid the bill by check without many words.
La Signora
never stirred, which is why Rick still had a job today.

“
Il Dottore
immediately sent me to the quarters and dealt with the club owner himself,” he told me.

“Then he’s the only one who knows,” I reminded him. “Let it go and get out there.”

But Rick knew he had crossed a line and broken a code, humiliating himself in the process. He could not bear facing up to the damage he had done to his reputation with his boss. He kept repeating, “This is
so
not me.”

With the humidity in the confined crew quarters, I could smell the alcohol emanating from his pores. I offered to help him up, just as he had stuck out his hand to me when we first met on deck four months back. “Come on,
mon pote,
” I said. He let me pull him up, but there wasn’t much more I could do. As much as I wanted to stick around, talk him through the day, and let him know it would be okay, sixty people would soon be descending on
Serenity,
and I had to feed every hungry mouth among them or two of us would be in trouble with the owners.

Like a moth drawn to a flame, I also put myself in a spot that became my most embarrassing moment of the voyage. When the attractive cashier at the supermarket saw
Serenity
’s embroidered insignia on my uniform, she was jubilant because one of her favorite yachts was in the marina. When she asked if it was
my
yacht, I lied and said I was the son of the owner. She told me how lucky I was, to which I responded that every time I came to the boat, I was delegated to be the cook. As ridiculous as that line was, she bought it. She beamed with pride to be in the company of a member of the well-known family standing before her. I paid about eighteen hundred dollars in cash for two carts of groceries and hurried out.

I hadn’t counted on how much of a favorite
Serenity
was to her. She came by on the morning of party day to see the boat. The owners were in the cockpit having breakfast, but in the confidence born of the belief that she was a friend of one of the family members, she called up to them and asked to speak to their son Davide.
La Signora
looked over the rail of the aft deck and must have asked her, “And this son of mine, Davide, what does he look like?” The girl must have described me to a tee, for
la Signora
came directly to the galley to inform me that there was a young lady on the quay asking to speak to her son. She was not amused. But when I went out to deal with my visitor, I had to pass the cockpit.
Il Dottore
looked up, smiled, and said in a low voice in front of his friends, “
Bravo, bravo.
”

Guitar players will sometimes
reverse hands to reinforce how much they’ve improved their fretwork. Switch-hitting baseball players are so adept at home plate it looks reflexive. And with professional soccer players, it is very hard to tell which foot is stronger. This is what the end-of-season party did for me and the crew. The large dining events in Monte Carlo had left such an impression that I had thought long and hard about how to establish procurement, prep, and service as routine. Ian assumed the role of second waiter. Once the party began, Rick balanced his time between plating and pouring. Scott received and scraped plates through the crew passageway. Nigel took his station in the crew shower for rinse duty, and Kevin loitered by the galley to help in whatever way he could. Patrick donned his blue blazer and tried to appear comfortable making small talk with the Italian guests.

As I faced my ordeal, I remembered Patrick fully in control of the boat the night of the squall and how we all carried off any job he gave us without question or grumble. It became clear to me that we might not have survived that night had he shown any failure of resolve. Pulling off this dinner was not on the same scale of importance as getting us through gale forces, but that night had hammered home an important lesson of leadership. If the leader has no confidence in doing the job his way, why should those who have to carry out his instructions follow?

On this night I had to show my own resolve, and I went about my business with the words of one of my mentors in my mind: “Be a chef in the kitchen.” The evening went smoothly. The menu, thankfully, was shorter than the first time, from the antipasti to the finish of petits fours purchased at a great
pasticceria
in town. And I was grateful
la Signora
sanctioned a meat course, giving me a free pass to take care of
il Dottore
’s request.

When everything had been done, with no calamities, I took my first break. I then realized there might be calls for the late-evening snack, so I put the water on to be ready for the
spaghettoni.
The chanting never came. I heard the next morning that the chef on the neighboring yacht had his turn in the barrel and had got beaten up pretty badly. Antipasti, pasta,
panini,
salads, more drinking until three or four in the morning.

As it became clear that the party had proved the ultimate bash for the owners, I took more than a little satisfaction in the way it had all come off. I had taken charge, made the galley my galley. There’s an old saying that goes, “Responsibility without authority is hell on earth.” Well, the responsibility had been all mine, and I wasn’t bashful about taking the full authority I needed. The best part of the experience was that my fellow crew members, with whom I had a relationship of equals, had not resented my barking out orders. To the contrary, they remained eager throughout the long evening to communicate that they were ready for the next task.

A day later, Patrick lined the crew on the aft deck for the owners’ end of August parting ceremony. I got to the line a little late and took a place in my usual penultimate position, feeling bad for being tardy because I knew it was noticed. The owners and guests shook the hand of each crew member with a firm grip and a pause until their eyes met, then made some statement of unabashed gratitude. Dennis obviously loved his American-style breakfasts so much he gushed, “Absolutely great—you worked so hard. Don’t think it went unnoticed.” He then stuck a tip in Rick’s hand and mine, a nice gesture, but something we weren’t supposed to accept. Rick shot a quick look in my direction that said, “He ran us through so many hoops, take it.” We slipped the bills in our pockets, both knowing we would divvy the money up with the rest of the crew.
Il Dottore
continued on to me and said, “
Bravo, grande chef.
”
La Signora
added her own “
Bravo, Davide.
Everything was wonderful.” Flattering remarks like these were rare, but this time they felt particularly sincere and I basked in the praise.

The minute the owners disappeared into their waiting car service, beers cracked open, and we all migrated to the cockpit, forbidden territory in August. Everybody breathed sighs of relief.

The boat was “ours” again, and Patrick announced that we would sail to Corsica’s coastal towns of Bonifacio and Calvi to clean the boat and enjoy a little needed rest and relaxation. As we toasted Sardinia and the Emerald Coast, the
passerelle
and lines came on board, and we motored toward the Strait of Bonifacio. Once under way, I retreated from my mates to sort things out in the galley and figure out what was next.

Eleven

The Last Regatta

Corsica and the Côte d’Azur

T
he ride from Sardinia to Corsica, sans owners, sans stress, on our way to a week of mostly rest and relaxation, took no more than a couple of hours. We could be considered
genti okay,
an Italian shorthand way to refer to those that visit after the high season. A silent respect extends from those who provide to those who know when to arrive, making for a pleasant stay. As we continued to motor toward Bonifacio, I was hoping the hospitalities shown us would be as good as advertised. I must have been daydreaming a bit because I didn’t hear Rick come up to the aft deck behind me. “Hey, David, don’t look out, look down,” Rick called out as he flicked his cigarette ashes overboard, as if the sea around us was his personal ashtray. “Look down at the water.”

How had I missed this? The waters were turquoise and aquamarine and so clear I could see rock formations of sand-colored stones on the sandy bottom. I had been fascinated by the rocks in this region—not only by their color but by their shape—and these were all worn round by time. Rick told me to enjoy the view and said that the shallow waters were great for snorkeling and scuba diving.

“But not so good for deep-keeled boats,” he cautioned.

I could see what he meant. The shallow waters apparently made transit through the channels along the north coast of Sardinia treacherous and not a time for distraction. Every so often, I spotted these submarine islands of perfectly rounded rocks that seemed to have bubbled up from the sea’s floor and somehow anchored themselves in place, there to seduce and destroy those who pass through these waters incautiously.

A short while after we passed the small, almost barren islands of the Maddalena archipelago, I began to see in the distance across the Bonifacio Strait—known to be a treacherous wind funnel and seafaring challenge to cross because of the powerful mistral—vertical, sheet white cliffs rising majestically along the southern coastline of Corsica. Right in the middle of the palisades, I could see the outlines of what appeared to be a town that followed the crest and looked as if it had grown out of the stone below it. I was soon to find out that this was the
vieille ville
—the old town—of Bonifacio that rested above the hidden harbor area behind it.

For some reason, for all of history’s conquerors, we remember learning early in life that Napoleon was born here and that the island is a part of France. But the locals—any local—on the island will proudly declare that they are Corsicans first and foremost. One look at the map tells you that most of its towns have Italian names or a close derivative, which is probably a result of the Genovese stronghold that reigned on the island. And Italians will remind you that the people are ethnically Italian, and some will even take the time to inform you that Napoleon’s birth record spells his name Napoleone Buonaparte. What intrigued me from reading about the island was that in the eighteenth century, the Corsican patriot Pasquale Paoli tried to set up Corsica as one of Europe’s earliest republics. In doing so, he adopted the profile of a Moor—
la testa di moro
—to be the image displayed on the island’s black and white flag, a nod back to an earlier time of rule and a symbol for pride and separatism.

As we got closer, it became easier to make out where the cliffs flatten out and the buildings of the old town begin. Patrick, seeing me gaze in awe at this unique spectacle, completely different from anywhere we had been, came over and explained to me that every structure in the town is cut from the same white cliff rocks. The citadel at the top and the other freestanding watchtowers are said to be found all along the coast, outposts from another time that served to warn of possible enemy invasions. But the distant coastline was all a blur under the haze of the early September sun.

Bonifacio is situated at the southernmost tip of the island, and as we approached the shoreline, I could see more clearly the true dimension of that slice in the coastline. We were heading into what seemed like a sharp ravine that flanked a narrow waterway inland, called a
calanque
in French, in essence a fjord-like inlet. Nature and her handmaiden time had cut through the cliffs to create one of the most protected harbors on the planet.

Everyone kept up the merriment that started the moment of the owners’ departure. I had never seen Kevin this relaxed or jovial. The serious, sober, diligent guy who set the standard for everyone else when it came to doing his fair share was now passing out beers and big pats on the back. “Job well done, here’s to us,” and we all saluted each other and took another swig. Slowly, the party drifted toward the foredeck. For a moment,
Serenity
was our boat and the Mediterranean our private sea.

Once we docked, reality set in as everyone scampered to take care of the chores that came with dockage. The boat’s fuel and water tanks needed to be refilled. There was also plenty of scrubbing, touch-up painting, and varnishing that had to be done. Washing the hull got me out of the galley and finally back into the sun. It felt good even if the work was mindless because it was all that I wanted to do. My body after the August
ferie
felt like it had been hit by a truck. Down below, table and bed linens, towels, and uniforms all had to be sent out for cleaning. Rick was taking care of that. Later in the day, I went onshore to provision, first climbing the steep cobblestoned streets to get a look at the town itself. Knowing the crew had had its fill of fish and pasta, I bought racks of lamb and
contre-filet
—big, thick strip steaks.

Three days in Bonifacio to take care of business and load up on red meat and potatoes, and then we were off for Calvi, in the northern part of the island. Normally, the mistral comes down the very jagged western coast of Corsica, hitting parts of the shoreline head-on, which is why, after centuries, the coast is so rough. So most sailors choose instead to head north on the protected eastern coast. But with no sign of the fabled wind, we headed up the western coast, hoping for an event-free ride. We chose right.

The citadel that has protected Calvi for centuries during its fabled history is conspicuous after rounding the Punta della Revellata just west. Nothing fancy about it, the fort rests on the top of a hill at the end of a small peninsula, its high stone walls standing guard to one of the most beautiful land and seascapes I’d ever seen. The quaint town and small marina below are well protected in the shadow of the citadel, and a sweeping look across the bay reveals a long stretch of desolated beach. With the rolling hills and mountains behind, this expanse of terrain is very inviting.

After dinner our second night there, Nigel and I decided to head for one of the sailor bars in Calvi. Normally, Nigel is not the type of person to talk to strangers, even friendly ones. But when he heard a familiar accent at the next table—the unmistakable lilt of a fellow New Zealander—he brightened up. The man at the next table responded immediately with a friendly “hello.” But then he introduced himself as Henri, saying it with a faux French accent. Registering our confusion, he explained that he was in the French Foreign Legion and was based in the citadel, the legion being the only tenants in the monument. No wonder it seemed off-limits when I went up to take a look. We asked him what his real name was, but he answered, “Henri,” and we left it at that.

What had turned into a jovial evening of conversation was interrupted by the roar and gunning of a motorcycle engine somewhere extremely close to the bar. We and everyone else in the room looked toward the doorway to see what was making the racket. Over the threshold stood a bear of a man in a black leather rider’s jacket, black jeans, and black boots, easing his shiny Harley-Davidson Sportster—engine still running with an occasional rev—into the bar and finally parking it in the space between the stools and the tables before shutting it down. A few women cheered the visitor on as he came in. It was, unquestionably, a grand entrance.

“That is Gaston. He likes to keep his new bike as near as possible,” Henri explained, using a tone of respect. “He doesn’t want it touched by anyone.”

To me, our visitor looked more like an outlaw biker than a Gaston, but I said nothing. Henri then told us that Gaston was his superior officer.

I wondered for a minute if Nigel was thinking what I was thinking—what an act! The false French names, the macho image. But if Nigel was thinking that, his face didn’t reveal it.

With his bike secure, Gaston sauntered right over to our table. He had a scar across his right cheek.

“Who are your friends?” he asked Henri, in a menacing tone consistent with the image he conveyed.

“Sailors on a yacht that called, mate,” Henri replied. “Good guys on leave.”

We introduced ourselves as David and Nigel, and Gaston, waving his finger at us and referring to me as Dave, leaned over and said, “One hard-and-fast rule of the island—Corsican women are off-limits to foreigners.” Then he ordered us another beer.

While Henri and Nigel mused about New Zealand, all I could think about was why anyone would join the legion, adopt a new French name, and basically shed one’s identity. Did these guys really think people didn’t see through their bravado? Then I began to wonder if Gaston had joined by choice or had signed up to avoid some messy situation in the country of his birth. We landed on their good side, but at the same time I became a little uncomfortable. Maybe in the back of my mind, I wasn’t thinking about the contrived élan of the legionnaires. Maybe seeing Gaston in his shielded but transparent posturing lit up a dark corner in my own psyche.

As the months of my sojourn turned into years, I had taken more and more satisfaction in the fact that I could pass as a native-born Italian. It was more than pride in learning to think and converse in another language, reflexively use its idioms, and speak with my hands. And it was more than conforming to the country’s customs and traditions and wearing its clothes. I wanted to pass as authentic because I felt comfortable with the notion of
la bella figura
—the impression I made on others—the part of myself that wanted to be Italian.

Now I wondered, was I as transparent to others as Gaston was to me?

In one more day,
Serenity
would be sailing back to Antibes and then on to Saint-Tropez. Then the season would be over, the job done. And yet I wasn’t thinking, as I would have in the past, “Okay, where do I want to go next?” What restaurant, what part of Italy, what type of work? And I knew why. For the first time during my years abroad I had a sense not only of time passing but also of time passing me by.

While we walked back to the boat, I firmed up a plan. Once we hit Antibes, I would find a moment to ask Michele what he thought about my approaching the owners with the idea of their backing me to open a restaurant or perhaps a food store in the States. I was more than a little anxious about what I might learn. Michele knew what the owners thought of me and would not hold back out of concern for how I would take it. I didn’t know if I was ready to hear bad news. But I promised myself that I would make the inquiry.

We left Calvi toward evening, when the sun had a brilliant red-orange glow. “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight,” so the adage goes. Patrick passed his off-watch hours by trolling a long monofilament fishing line between the stern. He caught a good-sized tuna at three in the morning, and Ian quickly grabbed a bottle of gin to pour over the fish’s gills—knocking it out instantly. I planned on having it broken down into fillets by daybreak.

During my watch, while manning a halyard jig, I was working out in my head how I would open the conversation with Michele when, absentmindedly, I took the last wrap of the line off the pin when a sail trim was called. The load on the rope made it ride fast and hard through my right hand, burning a deep and nasty red channel across my palm. It stung terribly, and the sea salt from the rope only added to the pain. Washing it was going to be excruciating. I was able to take the paid-out line and make it fast to the desired trim and immediately thought how sore my hand was going to be while at the stove. When I showed my wound to Patrick, he displayed no sympathy. “You’d better heal quickly because I need you on deck for the regatta. And don’t mention it to Michele,” he added, suggesting it would be a bad way to end a cruise.