by James Anderson Go back to book page (an extract) Finally, on 20 August we sailed into the last écluse. To my dismay it was round and the exit we needed was at right angles to our entrance. This presented a new challenge to my ingenuity. We went in with a French boat and had to jockey around for half an hour lining the bows up with the point of exit. We sat in the middle of this huge bowl with our lines extended out from the bollards on deck to Sherry and Jill on the lock, who endeavored to maintain some distance between the two boats by tugging on their line or slackening off as the situation required. I tried to coordinate their movements tactfully. “Sherry, pull a little on your line, please.” “Jill, slacken your line if you don't mind.” I was as smooth and sweet as honey. “Deck hands, go below and finish your game of Monopoly. I can't wait to see who gets Boardwalk.” They were in the way anyway. I tried not to raise my voice since that would elicit only nasty looks and no cooperation. When the lock had drained sufficiently, Sherry and Jill threw their lines aboard and climbed down the ladder by the exit to jump on as I sailed past. The first mate slipped on a rung on the wet, iron ladder, hit her head on one of the bars, and lost her sun glasses which promptly sank to the bottom of the lock. She also twisted her ankle when she leapt on deck. Everything had gone smoothly. The French boat was the first out of the lock. We followed in its wake along the last kilometre or so of the canal connecting to the river, which in turn forms an estuary. Alongside this inlet lies the town of Agde. It was late in the afternoon and like the Frenchman before us, we tied up along the wall that separated the town from the river. There were few boats, ample room, and just a short walk into the center of the old city. Having made the Silver Vixen secure for the night it was now time to celebrate. The first mate went over and invited the French family moored nearby to join the festivities and when we were all assembled on the aft deck of the Silver Vixen, I uncorked a couple of bottles of wine and filled everyone's' glass. “A toast to our successful voyage so far,” I said, holding my glass high. The Frenchman said something funny like “down zie atch,” and took a king-sized gulp. All followed his example. Suddenly his cheeks puffed up, his eyeballs seemed to roll upward into his forehead and red wine poured out of the corners of his half opened mouth. “Are you all right?” I asked, my glass suspended half way to my mouth. He then rushed to the rail and spat the wine out over the side of the boat. “I don't think he likes it,” I said, turning to the first mate, but she’d gone along with most everyone else to the rail where they noisily separated their mouths from the precious wine. Only the second mate remained at my side gently rolling the red liquid around between his tongue and palate with little purrs of appreciation. He had seen professional wine tasters doing this. Then he swallowed it and uttered “bon, bon” just before it came up again and he too ran for the rail. I now suspected something must be wrong with the wine. I gingerly took a tiny sip to be sure. Yes, I was right. It tasted like the combination it was, partly shower water with a definite ingredient of soap, partly engine oil, partly canal water and a soupçon of wine. “Bilge water,” said the Frenchy nastily as he returned to my side supporting his wife who looked a little pale. “We must now depart, Monsieur. My wife she don't feel zo good.” I’d finished savoring my drop of wine and analyzing its contents, and relieved to see them go. I was beginning to dislike that Frenchman and his uppity manner. So a little bilge water had seeped into the bottle around the cork. There were plenty more bottles. The first mate apologized to the French couple. Much to my chagrin they decided to forgive and forget and help us open the remaining bottles of wine. There were about thirty in all, of which only about six had escaped the insidious penetration of bilge water and survived the journey in the hold of the boat. We drank them all plus another four bottles supplied by the Frenchman and we departed weary friends. As night closed in we decided to put up the rigging in order to be ready to sail at first light into our glorious future in the Mediterranean. A little tipsy we stepped the masts, fastened the guy wires, of which there seemed to be an inordinate number, and ran up the French flag which we found among a bundle of foreign flags in the forward locker. We were ready. Next morning when we rose, we found the wires twisted around one another in a haphazard fashion, a few dangling loose with no place to go. “It looks as if the entire thing was erected by a blithering idiot.” I said to the first mate upon viewing the mess in the light of the rising sun. “Well?” she answered, raising an eyebrow in a supercilious manner. “Well what?” “You were in charge.” Fuming, I ordered the entire thing dismantled and we started again. About noon we had it under control and the rigging looked more or less normal. The wind speed indicator however, still appeared a little off kilter, so I sent Jill up the mast to straighten it out. It was a beautiful, calm, sunny day as we said farewell to Agde and proceeded down the estuary toward blue water. At the mouth of the estuary we motored into a large bay and off to the southwest we could see the headland we would navigate around. We turned to follow along the coast. I turned the wheel over to the second mate and sat down at the chart table to plot the course to the headland. I took a compass reading, allowed for the magnetic deviation, plotted it on the chart and was nearly finished when the first mate asked how much longer I’d be. I assured her only a few more minutes. “Good,” she said, because we’re nearly around the headland. “There’s a lighthouse on it. Is that on your chart?” I looked up. Engrossed in my work, the plotting had taken longer than I thought, and we’d reached the destination before the course setting was finished. More annoying, I couldn't find the lighthouse. The first seaman standing near by found it for me on the chart after I’d showed her what the symbol looked like. Anyway, it was a waste of time because I’d plotted a course to the wrong headland. Still, if we’d followed the compass setting I’d settled on, it would’ve only been off by about ten nautical miles. I pointed this out to the first mate who informed me the headland we wanted and had already reached, was only five miles from where we’d started. Return to top | 
