Cruising the Med

Now that we owned Cap des Isles, we had to get to know her. I scheduled a five week trip from mid May to mid June, with the expectation that the worst of the winter would be over and spring would be well on the way. The plan was for me to go for two weeks, Jane to follow for two weeks and then a week for me to "put her to bed" before we could return in September. The two weeks when we were on board together were supposed to give us some time to get her out into the Med and do some mini-cruising to check her out, under sail.
The way we get to and from Gruissan is by TGV from Charles de Gaulle. The train comes south from Paris to Montpelier then turns west and runs along the shoreline to Narbonne. As we made the turn at Montpelier and ran along the coastline you can see the many harbours, protected by substantial seawalls, that line this part of the French Mediterranean. At first I thought I was seeing things but, after about the third harbour, I realized "There are huge waves crashing over the seawalls." I was taken aback by their ferocity and my thoughts of balmy summer breezes turned into an empty feeling in the pit my stomach. There was no way anyone would venture out into that maelstrom. How were we going to get our shakedown cruises with that going on?
When I reached Gruissan and climbed on board, 20 + hours of travelling made battling with nature a job for the next day.
The southerly winds that were causing the mayhem quietened down over the next couple of days but the temperature was far from springlike. It was somewhat warmer than three months prior but a long way from shirtsleeves and forget shorts altogether. To add insult to injury, the Tramontane started to blow again. Same song second verse. The boat was jumping around in the slip, fenders were blowing past the cabin ports, working on deck was extremely unpleasant and the howling of the rigging was non stop. So I busied myself going over all of the inside lockers for the second time. By the time Jane arrived, the Tramontane had subsided, but I was still shell shocked. Two weeks of unrelenting gales in March followed by two more in May. What had I got myself into? Surely there would be a break as it was now June. All of the locals were whining that spring should have started a month previously. Jane arrived on a springlike day with my hopes high for our planned shakedown. We had a rental car so we could get some fairly heavy provisioning done and we got to know all of the supermarkets, hardware stores, chandleries etc.
We were pretty well set when the Tramontane started again. Jane had been on the receiving end of my telephone calls with the Tramontane blowing on my prior trips, but she was quite unprepared for the real thing. It was blowing too hard to even consider venturing out, although some local diehards did so, in full foul weather gear and deeply reffed sails. Their explanation was the the coast was a windward shore so wave conditions were not too bad, so why not? After being pinned down for a week, it calmed down enough that I plucked up the courage to back her out of the slip. No big voyage just get out of the marina and poodle around in the entrance to the port. We had gone about a mile when the motor cut out. I quickly got the anchor down and pondered our first crisis. Not too much detective work, I had forgotten to open the tap from the fuel tank and we had run out of fuel. Fortunately our neighbour in the marina came by and gave us a tow back in to the fuel dock. The task at hand was quite clear, bleed the fuel system. I've done it hundreds of times on Winsome Smile, this one was just four cylinders rather than two. I had a manual and the internet so I followed all of the instructions carefully, several times over. I even E mailed Graham Johnstone in the UK who has a sister ship. His question "Have you located the 'impossible to adjust' bleeding screw?" I said I had and described where it was. His reply "Not that 'impossible to adjust screw' the other one." There were two impossibles? Impossible. Despite my best efforts I could not purge all of the air and had to shout "uncle". I set off , on foot, to find a mechanic who could get us going so we could get back to our own slip. Fairly soon I had located someone who said they could have a man there by about four that afternoon. Somewhat doubtful, I returned to await his arrival. Shortly after four, a Ford Transit van pulled up and an overalled individual introduced himself as the fix-it guy. In rather less than adequate French I explained what I had done, showed him the two "impossible" screws (he smiled knowingly) he poked around a little, had me crank the engine and then proceeded to the injectors. I cranked the engine at his behest while he bled the injectors, something which the manual specifically tells you not to do, in capital letters. He was on board for all of fifteen minutes and the 4-108 Perkins London cab engine was running perfectly again. I happily paid his 30 Euro fee (plus a little pour une verre de vin) and considered it a bargain, much less than for the same service in the US. Now, before we start the engine Jane always asks, "Have you opened the fuel tap."
In the two weeks Jane was there, we managed to get out of the slip three times. On the third time we anchored out for the night. So much for our shakedown cruises.
When Jane left, I had another week to do several projects, put the boat to bed and head home. But the excitement was not over, another adventure awaited.
I ordered a cab to take me from the boat to the station in Narbonne. There is a bus service but if it is not running right on time, you may miss the train and I didn't want to take a chance. The plane to Tampa leaves at 4:15 pm and if you miss the 8:00 AM train, it is the only one direct to Charles de Gaulle, what's next?
So, when the cab did not arrive, I was in trouble. The bus terminus is about a mile away and, with no cab I absolutely had to catch the only bus that might get me to the station on time. Towing my luggage I covered the mile in about ten minutes. The drivers had half a cigarette left on their break when I skidded to a halt at the Narbonne bus, bathed in sweat. The locals looked a little askance but I was happy to be on the bus. The bus trip takes 20-30 minutes and, as we arrived, I jumped off the bus and ran into the station hoping that I still had time to catch my train. There I was, standing in Narbonne station, ticket in hand, staring at the departure screen and panicking because there was no train with my number listed there. I must have looked as bad as I felt because a young lady in her late 20's/early 30's asked me if I was OK and could she help. Where was my train, I wanted to know. It has been cancelled she explained because of the strike. I knew there was a transport workers strike but thought it was only at the airports not country wide. Suddenly she asked, "Would you prefer that we speak English?" What a relief, I understood the problem but sorting out a solution was going to be much easier in English than in French. She was on a Paris bound TGV that was leaving in 15 minutes and she suggested that it was probably the only chance I had to get out of Narbonne that morning. All sorts of questions were running through my head. Could I get all the way to Paris, would I be put off the train for having a ticket on a different train, would I be able to buy another ticket if necessary, would I get to Paris early enough to still get to CDG in time, how did you get from some unknown Paris station through the Metro to CDG????? Her suggestion, get on the train first and worry about the other stuff as it came. Great advice from such a youngie but she knew the lie of the French land better than I. So, along with a lot of others in the same boat, so to speak, I pushed onto the Paris train. At first, there were places to sit, but as we stopped along the way, those seats were claimed by people who had actually bought tickets for this specific train. Pretty soon I was standing up in the buffet car planning the next steps. Step one, snag a stool in the buffet car when someone vacated one since they were not assigned. Step 2 talk to the Chef du Train about the logistics in Paris. I waited patiently, perched on my stool, until a very harried Chef du Train came by with two or three supplicants trailing in her wake. She promised to return once the others were looked after. Sure enough, she returned about fifteen minutes later. No problem with my ticket on the cancelled train, we would arrive at the Gare Lyon at 1:45 and here were the Metro lines to take me to CDG, and by the way, come with me I have a proper seat for you. I have a hard time with the conventional wisdom that the French are rude. My experience, particularly that morning, has been quite the reverse. Maybe the problem is with the visitor rather than the locals?
We arrived in Paris pretty much on time and I headed for the Metro. It took some time to figure out the vending machines and buy a ticket but now I'm waiting for the train to Chattelet, where you change to CDG. I befriended a fellow traveller with a wheelie who looked like he might be going to CDG. I was thinking that we could share a cab if we had difficulty with the Metro. My intuition was correct, he was an Italian, going to CDG and we stumbled around in French yet managed to understand each other. We disembarked at Chattelet and as luck would have it, the train to CDG goes from the other side of the platform. Feeling pretty good, at this point, my Italian companion suddenly appeared and asked me to look at the arrivals/departures screen. I took a look and immediately saw his concern, all trains to CDG today from Chattelet have been cancelled. Oh no!
The next station from Chattelet is Gare du Nord, surely there are trains to CDG from there. A train arrived and the two of us, as well as everyone else on the platform, jumped on. We would have looked like right charlies if we had been left on the platform when everyone else knew better than to wait for a cancelled train. Gare du Nord is huge and we had no idea where to go. We tried following the signs but they were very confusing. Two elderly black guys saw our plight and came to our assistance.
"The train to CDG, you have to take the escalators over there and go upstairs." Off we set, but which of the several escalators? As we hesitated at the foot of the escalators, our good Samaritans, who must have been watching our quandary, approached shouting "the one on the right." More rude French people. Up we went, running now, onto a platform where there was a train apparently going to CDG. As soon as we could find a carriage that wasn't already packed solid with passengers, we and our bags squeezed on board. The train set off and as soon as we were settled I checked with one of my fellow sardines. Yes, he confirmed, this was the train to CDG, and how long, about 45 minutes. I was going to make it!!!! When I finally arrived at the Delta counter, the agent who checked me in said: "You look really harassed." I did not bother to give her the long version, I just said; "I started very early this morning and had a difficult trip." Then I added: "But the French were very helpful." Her eyebrows shot up but she did not respond, what a loaded statement, discretion was obviously the better part....
The plane left on time but there were delays in Atlanta and I arrived home at 5:30 AM, twenty eight and a half hours. You can get to Australia faster than that.