July 31, 2019
After the storm had finally blown through, we were more than ready to get off the boat. It would feel good to heave a sigh of relief on dry land, to stretch our legs, and to get some food that wasn't dried or canned. We were also keen to tackle some of the activities we'd missed while riding out the weather. We had been in St. Tropez 4 days now and had barely seen it! Once ashore, we decided to take the day to go our separate ways. Another boat life lesson we are learning is that it doesn't matter how crazy you are about someone: when you live on top of one another (especially after being cooped below deck for two days), nerves can get a bit frayed, and even your favourite person in the world will start to rub you the wrong way. On the one hand, I am happy to report that my husband has indeed kept his wedding vow to never be further than 55 feet away from me at any given time. On the other hand, sometimes we wish we could put an ocean between us. On land, there is always an opportunity for space - you go to your separate jobs, you have your separate friends, your separate activities. And you can always take a break and go for a walk when needed. That time and space apart just does not exist on the boat, unless you make the concerted effort to carve it out. We had yet to do that. Most of the time, we have rather enjoyed the mandatory closeness that this lifestyle entails. Though we are realising that everybody needs personal space and alone time. After surviving the storm, we both had a bit of cabin fever. We decided that rather than be at each others throats and on the verge of arguing about nothing just to let off steam, we'd take the day apart to just do whatever we felt like. And when we met up at aperatif hour, we might actually miss each other! What a novel concept...
I decided to spend my morning wandering aimlessly around the old town, discovering little twists and turns that all eventually led to the water. I'd also heard that St. Tropez has an amazing open air market every Tuesday and Saturday in a little square called Place des Lices. Upon inquiry, I learned that it was in fact Tuesday. It's funny how the specific days of the week cease to matter once you are out of the rat race. Is it Tuesday or Saturday? No idea! Days of the week become what they need to be: today may be boat cleaning day, tomorrow passage day, and if the weather of the past few days has taught us anything, ultimately the day is whatever the hell type of day Mother Nature says it is. Given that for the moment, Mother Nature didn't seem to have a problem with today being what civilisation conventionally calls "Tuesday," I took advantage and weaved my way to Place des Lices. The market was wonderful - large and bustling, chock-a-block with dozens and dozens of stalls selling a wide variety of produce and products. You could find just about every Provencal food specialty one could dream of - mounds of olives, tapenade and garlic, freshly baked bread and croissants, and baskets of fresh vegetables. There were also stalls selling fragrances, soaps, sun hats and dresses, and handcrafted jewellery for a fraction of what they go for in the boutiques in town. This shit is right up my alley, and I happily perused for an hour or so, picking out little gifts for family members and a new hat for myself (as though I needed another hat...) It was a great activity to tackle solo, as I knew this market would be Stephen's idea of hell.
After my perusal, I went to a corner bakery and treated myself to what they call a Tarte Tropezienne - a classic St. Tropez confection that was apparently the actress Brigitte Bardot's favourite and who supposedly coined the name. Think of a large, thick beignet the size of a cantaloupe dotted with sugar crystals, sliced in half and filled with an ungodly amount of buttercream. It is decadent to the extreme, and I will probably need dentures after eating it, but you can't go to St. Tropez and not indulge in one. Hey, if it’s good enough for Brigitte! A quick note on Brigitte Bardot and St Tropez. She is EVERYWHERE. And while the icon herself now mostly hides away in her villa on the outskirts of town, her image is ubiquitous. It's as if the town is a brand: "St. Tropez: Sponsored by Brigitte Bardot." The French actress is largely credited with bringing celebrity cache to the once sleepy fishing village. Brigitte first came to St. Tropez in 1955 to film "And God Made Woman" and was so taken with the town, she made it her home. Brigitte is widely considered the original blonde bombshell and a symbol of the sexually liberated woman, which was a novel concept in her time. Decades later, the town really milks the image of the young BB in her hey day running around town in bathing suits and scarves, partying at Clubs 55 and Byblos with the other glitterati of the day. You can't turn a corner without seeing her dark eyes and pouting lips starting at you from a sign, a T-shirt, or a coffee mug. It's a little much, to be honest. Still primarily famous for her bombshell status of the 50s and 60s, Brigitte is now better known for her animal rights activism. What she is not as well known for and which I found a bit surprising considering how the whole town is basically an homage to her is that she is pretty racist. An avid Le Pen supporter, she is openly anti-immigration, specifically anti-muslim, and has been fined by the French government on a few occasions for comments that supposedly spur racial hatred. Hmmm, that is all kept very much in the fine print! I find it a bit of a shame that she is worshiped so openly and completely for having once been hot and blonde, while nobody seems to care about her social and moral attributes. Learning this about her kind of took the shine off seeing her face and bust around every corner of this town. Though it didn’t stop me from ordering a second Tarte Tropezienne, so maybe I am just a cream-loving hypocrite.
Before the Hollywood film set made the town super fashionable in the 1950s, St. Tropez was not just a sleepy fishing village but an enclave for artists and writers who were, like Brigitte many years later, taken with the quiet beauty of the place. This history is on display at the Musee de l'Annonciade located right at the end of the marina (now next to a massive Hermes shop. Side note: you will not struggle to spend money in St. Tropez if that is your aim). This small museum was high on my list of things to do, and I was not disappointed with my visit. What a gem! I find museums can sometimes be so big and intimidating as to discourage you from going. I found this museum to be perfectly sized for a quiet hour's perusal, and it told such a beautiful story of the many artists who had found inspiration in St. Tropez, from Matisse to Seurat to Signac. The converted church is full of their lovely and colourful works depicting the old town, the harbour, and the Bay of Canebiers where Florence currently floats - all a heady mix of pinks, greens, blues, and purples. Seeing these paintings and reading about their creators gave me a greater appreciation for the town, its history, and the magic it has bestowed on people over the decades. I would highly recommended a visit if you are in town. After the museum, I found a shady spot on a little square and ordered myself a pastis - a typical Provencal liqueur made from anise seed that you see the locals drinking all the time. I didn't love it. As I don't like anise seed, this could have been predicted, but it was worth a shot! I pretended to sip this as I watched the old French men of the village playing pétanque under the trees. It was lovely to experience this quieter side of St. Tropez, away from the mega yachts and choppers and Chanel stores.
When I met Stephen around 6 PM, he was buzzing. He had spent his day of freedom reading and was so excited to have finally finished David Copperfield. He wanted to chat all about Davey and Agnes and Mr. Peggoty and Little Emily and how all their stories got tied up. I was more than willing to play this game, as David Copperfield is my favourite novel and one I had bought for him a couple Christmases ago. I regaled him with my market experience, which as suspected he claimed sounded like Dante's Inferno, and together we wandered to a little sidewalk cafe to have a casual early dinner. The time apart was restorative, and we were thankfully no longer at risk of clawing each other's faces off for having the audacity to breathe. After surviving a biblical storm, praying for 36 hours' straight that our anchor would hold and lightning would avoid our mast, a leisurely stroll around a lovely town and time to sit in the shade and read were priceless.
The following day, we did reschedule our intended visit to Club 55 on the famous Pampelonne Beach just outside of town. The beach is stunning - a long, wide stretch of white sand looking out over the gulf. The beach club itself seemed to have become a bit too popular for its own good. We'd each been before, Stephen in 2005 and me in 2013, and it seemed to both of us that since then they'd managed to shove twice as many tables under the same medium-sized veranda. These days, they apparently knock out 900 lunch covers a day, which explains the complete lack of elbow room and the decidedly brusque service. It was still a fun experience and a nice treat to sit under the shade and drink rose, listening to the live band, and enjoying some pretty priceless people watching. So we got the 55 t-shirt, but I don't think we will be back.
As often happens after spending a day of relaxation away from the boat, reality bit quick and hard when we returned home. Our generator seemed to be on the fritz again. When we tried to turn on the water maker and the washing machine, both high-load items, the generator kept tripping off. We went below the floor boards to where it lives and discovered it was getting really hot, which it shouldn't if functioning correctly. There must be something wrong with the cooling system. When an engine overheats, apparently the first thing to check is a little gizmo called the impellor. It's a small, rubber device that regulates the raw water intake to the engine and allows it to cool. We were too tired to deal with it that night and also quite sensibly figured tackling something technical with the engine should probably be done with fresh eyes and without the added inspiration of a few glasses of rose (cough 7).
The next morning we woke up on a mission: it was Impellor Day. After searching through our many drawers of tools and spares that we embarrassingly have yet to organise properly, we couldn't locate a spare impellor, even though our inventory told us there should be several. Hmmm. No matter - we made the trek into town and to the ship chandlery - a ramshackle operation on the edge of the marina that wasn't particularly well-organised but looked as if it would have the part we needed. Indeed it did. We lifted it, and headed back to Florence to attempt the fix. I love it when my husband takes me shopping in St. Tropez!
As a rule of thumb, everything technical on a boat is likely awkward to access, and Florence's generator is no exception. Located under the floorboards below the companionway, to access it we need to remove the companionway steps, lift up the floorboards, and unscrew the noise-cancelling container it sits within. Then to reach the cooling system, we need to lift the stairs that lead up from the kitchen to provide a gap large enough to squeeze an arm through. Of course the impellor cap turned out to be located on the underside of the engine and was a real bitch to get to. It seemed to require rubber bones to reach underneath to unscrew the cap and fish out the existing impellor. After about 10 minutes and 20 four-letter words, Stephen managed to pry it out, and we were relieved to discover the impellor looked knackered and as if it was indeed the cause of the engine overheating. We'd never replaced the impellor before, and it turned out to be another classic "10-minute boat job" - it took about 90 minutes of Stephen reaching under the stairs, contorting his arms in all sorts of Gumby-like positions, while I, his trusty assistant, handed him various tools while using my spare foot to hold up the steps, preventing them from slamming down on his neck for the umpteenth time. Maybe another afternoon at Club 55 wouldn't be so bad....
In the end, patience, teamwork, and a surprising amount of flexibility for a 40-year old prevailed, and the new impellor was in place. Success! We turned the generator back on for the moment of truth, and thankfully she sprung to life - for about 60 seconds. Then she shut down again, which we couldn't understand, as the engine now seemed cool to the touch. So apparently it wasn't the impellor? Or the cooling system? We were at a loss. While we could now probably be considered intermediate sailors, as marine engineers, we were still in the bantamweight division. This generator issue seemed to be beyond our limited powers. Time to phone a friend. Neither of our go-to boat experts who kindly take our occasional confused phone calls knew exactly what the issue was, though one suspected it might have something to do with the water pressure sensor that lives at the very bottom of the engine and which we could not for the life of us even locate. As Stephen, back below the floorboards, swung his arm wildly below the engine feeling for something, anything, that seemed to fit the description of the sensor, our bilge alarm went off, followed by a small explosive sound, and the saloon quickly filled with an acrid, white smoke. SHIT. Watching your boat fill up with smoke is not a comfortable feeling. We had no idea what had just happened. Definitely time to call in the experts. As it was late and we were both drained from an entire day's worth of seemingly failed problem-solving, we went to bed frustrated and resolved to tackle the problem with fresh heads the following morning.
We woke up early and walked into town in search of a marine engineer who could help diagnose and hopefully solve our problems. Nobody at the marina really seemed interested in us, as Florence is not a mega yacht. I searched online and found someone who seemed to be reputable located a couple towns over. I gave them a ring, and though the technician didn’t speak English, my French was just good enough to articulate our problems and to arrange for him to come to us in Canebiers Bay. An hour later, we picked up Nicolas our technician and dinghied him back to Florence. We assumed the smoke that had filled our boat had come from a broken bilge pump - the electrical pump that removes water from the bilges. Nicolas replaced this with a new pump, but the issue persisted. When we turned on the pump, the boat again filled with that awful-smelling white smoke. Nicolas thought it might alternatively be something called the water switch or “witch switch” that had busted. What on earth are all these strange parts and why are boats so complicated?? While Nicolas did not have a spare witch switch, a lightbulb seemed to go off in Stephen’s head, and after rooting around in our poorly organised spares drawer, he found the item we needed. Well done, sir! With the new witch switch in place, our bilge pump issue seemed to be fixed. No more white smoke filling the boat. Excellent - Now onto the broken generator. Nicolas took a look at the impeller Stephen had replaced the day prior and noted it looked fine, so the impeller was not the issue. The generator however still kept tripping off mere seconds after we started it. We mentioned that it might have something to do with the water pressure sensor but had no idea where this was located. After digging around the underbelly of the engine, Nicolas eventually located the offending item, which was indeed almost completely corroded. He agreed that though the cooling system was now working correctly, the corroded water pressure gauge was giving a false reading and automatically shutting off the generator. He unfortunately did not have this spare part on him and would have to come back another day. In the meantime, he removed the sensor so our generator would function and we could charge our batteries, which was a huge help as without them, nothing on the boat works, not even running water. He agreed to come back the following afternoon, which was a relief as we had planned to leave St. Tropez for Antibes the next day to escape another weather system blowing through. Boat life has taught us you are not only always at the mercy of the weather but of whatever decides to break at any given moment. And normally on the boat, things break in 2s or 3s.
The following morning, we had some time to kill before Nicolas came back, so we decided to take the ferry to a neighbouring town called Port Grimaud. Port Grimaud is an odd little place - a port town constructed only about 50 years ago from disused marshland. The architect took inspiration from Venice and constructed rows of houses along a series of interconnected canals. Instead of driveways, these houses have little parking spaces out back for boats. It’s apparently commonly referred to as the "Poor Man’s Venice." What a funky place! We didn’t have a ton of time to wander around but figured we could squeeze in a quick lunch. Strangely, every single restaurant in the town was a pizzeria of some sort. So we went to a place called Don Giovanni's for, you guessed it, pizza, while watching the little boats skirt along canals. It did feel strangely like a Disneyland version of Venice, and what it lacked in charm it made up for in novelty.
Nicolas ended up arriving about an hour early while we were still on the ferry back to St. Tropez, so once off, we sprinted back to the bay and were a panting, sweaty mess by the time we reached him. He made it clear he would be charging us for his wait time. Oh well - at least he had our spare part! An hour later, the part was replaced, our generator appeared to be fully functional, and Nicolas presented us with a bill for EUR700. We really need to start learning how to fix more shit ourselves, as this calling in the experts strategy is starting to add up... With Florence back up and running, we were ready to wave goodbye to St. Tropez and head further along the Cote d’Azur to Antibes. But first, one last night aboard Florence in the lovely Bay of Canebiers. As if this bay that had been our home for the past 10 days knew we were leaving, she gave us a parting gift in the form of a massive fireworks display that erupted over the bay from a nearby barge. It was amazing - one of the most elaborate displays I've ever seen. What an awesome way to say goodbye to St. Tropez :)
Comments