We were to be a crew of three, John, Adriane and myself. Adriane, however, using her keen feminine wisdom suggested we post an ad on the bulletin board in the American Church seeking a shipmate. An American student who was living in Paris for the summer made quick response.
Mary was a smart and pretty girl of twenty-one from an upper, middle class, Washington family. She was to return at summer's end to an executive training position with General Electric. Mary, obviously bright, had competed for that chance among several hundred applicants. We advised her to consider the proposition overnight. The following morning Mary arrived with her bag packed and ready to go.
Provisioning the yacht with food and drink is always a pleasant task but doing it in Paris added to the excitement. Sidewalk stalls in the Paris marketplaces seem to present all forms of food in a much more appealing setting. Poultry, all of it fresh and not packaged.
Sausages of most European varieties, salamis aplenty and marvellous pâtés of countless types. Vegetables, voluptuous, crisp and ever so green. The largest, reddest, sweetest and juiciest strawberries I've ever seen or tasted. And then there are the crusty breads, unsalted, sweet butters and plenty of crème fraîche. Other delicacies we elected to purchase in the regions of their origin as we came upon them en-route.
JUNE 20.
It was to be a morning departure, but anything to do with boats will wreck the best planned timetable. At 3 PM. we finally cleared the St. Martin lock, into the River Seine and so bid farewell to the historic Bastille and the exciting fervour of Paris.
To an English speaking person the French appear to do most things backwards. This feeling is no doubt fuelled by the convoluted arrangement of their very language. Consequently, I saw a certain irony in the fact that the most French of all rivers, the Seine, wends its way through the countryside in a Northerly flow ignoring the fact that North is up and South is down—to those of us from the antipodes anyway. This bloody-mindedness of mother-nature, just to appease the French, no doubt, meant pushing against a two to three knot current in our pursuit of the (downhill) South.
Seine River, Paris, France. By Paul Chartrand (USA). Camera: Lumix DMC-SZ10
Given that we had pumped out all of the contaminated fuel we had but a few litres remaining and began an immediate search for the nearest fuel dock. It was soon obvious that a strange enterprise exists upon the Seine.
Small, greasy-looking barges squatting low in the water were made fast just off the main channel. A tiny fuel pennant standing stiffly in the breeze and a couple of battered fuel pumps signify bootleg diesel fuel at nearly half the regular price. Apparently, it's a subsidised fuel meant for agricultural use only and to make it identifiable as such the authorities add a rather violent red dye. The locals don't risk using it and the various authorities turn a blind eye to foreigners who use it on their passage through the canals of France. Needless to say, we took on a full load quite free of any ethical dilemma.
As we motored along the busy Seine the magnificent Parisian architecture quickly diminished giving way to a rash of drab factories that clutter the landscape. Jutting noticeably from industrial and urban jumble stands the mundane sterility of several High-Rises; they seem sordid and totally unfitting as they mingle among the great historic and architectural majesty of Paris.
The Wunderlust II in a lock
We managed to negotiate three locks before they closed at 7.30 pm. The business of jumping on and off the yacht so many times, climbing up and down slippery steel ladders and racing to and fro with long ropes made me ponder, with no small trepidation, the more than 100 locks which lay ahead in the coming days.
The air was noticeably cleaner away from Paris, something all of us immediately registered and readily embraced, except the Captain, a dedicated smoker who didn’t notice at all.
As evening gathered anchor was set at river's edge beside a lush, wooded area where the occasional fitness jock would trundle past in fashionable jogging mode. Conversation with one of them determined the lovely area to have been a staging area for one or more of the armies during the Great Crusades waged in the 11th, 12th, 13th and 14th centuries.
There, amidst the spectres of antiquity, we prepared for a sumptuous repast. As the mere mention of France conjures up visions of culinary triumphs I was determined to apply mine. Mary and Adriane were willing sous-chefs and the camaraderie that existed between us, particularly with cooking, cleaning and general boat chores could not have been better and such was the situation for as long as we were together.
As a pleasant dusk descended, with it drifted a welcome coolness preceding heady aromas emanating from the galley below which piqued the interest of all. A memorable moules marinière paved the way to a fragrant rabbit, sautéd to a crusty brown, flambéed with Cognac and the whole napped with a mushroom, cream and tarragon sauce.
The wine was of course French and the attending vegetables were tiny new potatoes, white asparagus and a fresh, green salad. Coffee was enjoyed with squares of sinfully rich chocolate and luscious strawberries. A perfect ending, we all agreed, to our first day upon the great River Seine.
Join me next week for Part 3.
Chaucer
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