Bonjour to Boulangeries, Blue Water and Boules
Well, our all-nighter went swimmingly (thankfully we didn’t have to swim) and we all agreed it was an experience none of us would have wanted to miss. There’s something inexplicably special about watching the sun set and then watching it rise the next morning, from out in the ocean. For at least an hour after the sun sank below the horizon, there was a fuzzy pink glow that merged sky into sea. Darkness seemed to cloak the sky quite suddenly, like God turned off a light switch. Michelle was on watch when the land finally retreated from view, at 22:22 to be exact. For a little while we could still see the faint flash of a Spanish lighthouse but no sign of the shore on which it stood.
What an eerie feeling it was to be surrounded by water, pitch black but for the tiny, fingernail of a moon casting its silvery shine on the watery path ahead and the rhythmic slosh of Pasha’s surge through silent waters the only sound we could hear.
My role as a “runner” was a bit overstated. Not only did I not run but I didn’t really do much at all. I was dozing on and off on the lounge and woke about once an hour just to sit bolt upright and yell: “are you OK?” to which they’d inevitably reply: “all good!” I was awake for all the baton changes and had convinced myself I was across all the nocturnal goings on in the wheelhouse. It was only in the morning that I’d discovered that, much to first-mate Michelle’s disapproval, Al had snuck his pillow up for his watch, and had snoozed a little himself in the wee hours. Auto pilot is a wonderful thing!
Ross was on watch pre-dawn when that same pink fuzz that had followed sunset, clothed the horizon once again, assuring us the sun was on his way. Seeing that huge, vibrant pink ball just pop up out of the sea, in all its glory, was a magnificent thing to witness.
We were blessed with near perfect conditions and relatively uneventful watches. In most situations a bit of action doesn’t go astray but in this case, no action was just fine by us.
Chelle saw a cruise ship which was a bit exciting but there were no pirates, refugees, men or women overboard or collisions with other boats. The flares remained firmly in their box as did the life rafts and the engine didn’t catch fire. So all in all, a pretty successful 14 hours we would say!
Just as we’d seen the land slip from view, the previous night, it was quite a buzz to see a mass of brown earth rising up before us, merging into focus. I imagined how incredible it must have been for those first intrepid explorers.
Chelle and I yelled “Land ahoy!’ and Al said “Welcome to France!” Rossco dutifully switched over the little Catalunya flag for the French one and we were all pretty chuffed indeed. We cranked up the French national anthem as we cruised along into French waters.
From our nautical vantage point, Toulon looked like it was a pretty substantial city. If little Sa Tuna was a minnow, Toulon was a whale shark. High rise unit blocks loomed over its sizeable industrial-looking port and it was like Pitt Street on the water with a hive of activity unfolding into the morning. Little ferries passed one another as they made their crossings back and forth. There was a big army base too and marinas with rows and rows of masts, a gigantic ocean liner and several huge overnight ferries with big smoke stacks. Ross spotted an ominous looking big, black submarine slinking around harbour, which was very reminiscent of McHale’s Navy.
We were on a quest for fuel though our search was not proving fruitful. Surely in this bustling port there’d be somewhere for Pasha to restock her supplies? Chelle was doing a ring around to see what she could find. Having just wrapped our brains and tongues around speaking Spanish, Chelle had to suppress a “hola” as she was greeted with a “bonjour” on the phone but not even her 4 years of high school French and a couple more years of French at Uni, could decipher what these guys were saying. After asking one man to “please repeat that” twice already, we were none the wiser as to what the heck he said. Suffice to say, it took a lot longer than expected to get fuelled up.
Chelle and I went ashore to explore what Toulon had to offer, while the boys sorted Pasha out. Our first stop was the boulangerie – we were on a mission to get those fresh croissants we’d been salivating over. We bombed out at the first shop when our request for some buttery French goodness was met with a very French shoulder shrug, a wiping of the hands and a “pouf!” Which we took to mean that she’d sold out. Luckily for us, Toulon wasn’t a one boulangerie-horse town and there was a bakery on every corner. Mission accomplished, we paced the pavement in the scorching hot sun and, to quote our favourite badger, sweated like a gypsy with a mortgage. We sought refuge from the sun in a beautiful cathedral in the centre of town and admired the classic flat-fronted, window-shuttered French apartment blocks in various pastel shades of the rainbow. There were lots of fountains and cute laneways, with French Riviera palm trees everywhere. Chelle and I agreed that poor Toulon was looking a little neglected.
Once Pasha was locked and loaded, it was time to leave this marine metropolis and head to the island group of Îles d’Hyères, directly south of Toulon. Now, a tough decision for the Crew That Can’t Make A Decision – which island would we visit? There were a few on offer; some with caves for swimming, some mostly national park, some with populations, some without. In record time for our crew, we decided on the delightfully inviting island, Porquerolles, because it looked gorgeous but mainly, if I’m honest, because the name sounded like “Pork Rolls”.
We had a beautiful swim off the boat on our approach to the island and the water was so blue, it looked like someone had poured Harpic Flushmatic into its depths. Amazing. One other thing we’ve noticed here in the Mediterranean is the distinct lack of sea life. There are virtually no fish. It’s so bizarre. This place had an abundance of seaweed along its sandy bottom (nothing worse than a sandy bottom) but when I popped the goggles on I didn’t even spot a single fish.
After mooring & dressing for dinner, we boarded the rubber ducky (technically the “tender”, I’ve discovered) and spotted a couple of lovebirds sunning themselves on a rock. Literally just as Michelle was telling us that she’d read Porquerolles was rumoured to house a nudist colony, the bloke on the rock, in our direct sight, dropped his strides for all the world to see, which unfortunately included the four of us. We puttered around the corner just in the nick of time, before his beloved also got her gear off.
Pork Rolls, as we’ve come to know it, was such a surprise packet. The island housed a little waterfront village, all its houses painted different shades of brown and tan, blending into the environment. We walked in on the boardwalk lined with millionaires’ yachts beside brightly painted wooden bathtub boats, to an array of overflowing restaurants, brimming with people, music and laughter. In the centre of the restaurants was a big open square, lined with eucalyptus trees (in France! Who’d have thought?) where people dressed up for dinner were all playing boules. It was such a great, summery holiday atmosphere! Our French food was scrumptious but our waitress forgot about us for a good deal of the night. She was very apologetic and gave us all a liqueur on the house to compensate. So nice of her!
Until tomorrow,
Au revoir!
