Mediterranean Summer (29 page)

Within days, everyone was
so focused on getting ready for the race that I held off speaking to Michele. But when I decided to go ahead and ask him, he responded positively. “You should talk to
il Dottore
and
la Signora.
They were pleased with your work. They may well want to help you.”

Then he gave me some heartfelt advice. Understand whom you are talking to, he warned gently but with a seriousness that caught my attention.

“In America, when you approach a businessman to bankroll you, he will expect you to show him a business plan and some financial projections. But it won’t work that way with the owners. If they do it, they will do it as a gesture of honor, because you have earned their respect, but they will expect honor on your part in fulfilling your end of the bargain. It is not only business. It is personal. This is a big responsibility. Think about it. There will be more time to talk. I will be sailing on
Serenity
for the regatta.”

But there was little time for talk. No one was doing or thinking of anything except preparing for the races. To make the boat as light as possible, Rick and I were assigned to unload anything that was not needed. After we removed everything that wasn’t to be tied down, we loaded a new inventory of sails, which we all had to learn to handle. We practiced hoisting the gollywobbler, a huge sail that would encompass the entire area between the masts; using the genoa, a humongous light air jib; the fisherman, an almost trapezoid-shaped sail that was flown between the two topmasts to catch precious wind above; and finally a new addition to our heavy lifting, the main jackyard topsail, a larger topsail than the one we carried complete with two yards—heavy spruce pieces of timber that held the sail—adding another ton to our regimen when used and apparently could help provide another knot of speed. We’d need at least a dozen strong pairs of arms to hoist and trim this one. Patrick took his extra speed very seriously. Thankfully, he invited others to race with us—Peter, a captain and master in classic schooner sailing, some very capable maxi-boat sailors, a dedicated rigger, and our sailmaker. Also,
Serenity
had to be sparkling, not just race ready, for this was as much a social event as a sailing event. We washed and polished everything. Finally we were ready to leave for Saint-Tropez.

By the time we
arrived, nearly all the motorboats had been cleared out of the harbor by the authorities, and hundreds of sailboats, of every size, age, and shape, took their place. We passed slender America’s Cup race boats from past eras, fleets of yawls, ketches, and sloops. In the
belle classe
category a remarkable collection of schooners and cutters were assembled:
Camille
and
Juliette,
the huge yacht
Danzer, Maiden Sea, Pegasus, Aurora, Beguine,
restored large J-boat racing beauties from the 1930s, and of course, our nemesis, the gorgeous and perfectly maintained
Carina.
We backed in next to her. Grudgingly we all admitted that she looked divine.

That evening we checked out the bars and nightclubs. Usually the sailors hang out at one kind of place and the owners and their friends at another. But during regatta week, these barriers break down. One night,
la Signora
was seen working her way through the sailor-packed Hotel Sube bar, obviously curious as to the goings-on. One of my mates from another boat gave me an elbow and said, “Isn’t that your boss over there?” A minute or so later, she was gone, her curiosity apparently satisfied.

In two days the races would begin. For all of us except Patrick, winning meant one thing—winning. But Patrick was looking for some degree of acceptance with a different crowd—professional racers. Being the skipper of the family’s personal yacht meant something to him, but the regatta was his chance to prove he had what it took to do more—to be an elite yacht racer.

The chilly morning dawned bright on the harbor at Saint-Tropez, and by the time I climbed on deck, there were already helicopters flying above, spectator boats getting ready to leave, and chase boats outside filled with paparazzi snapping shots for the sailing and gossip magazines. On the quay there were hundreds of people, most of them with hopes of catching a glimpse of an international celebrity or boat. The temperature rose to a pleasant sixty degrees, and although I could feel a small bite of autumn, I didn’t have an opportunity to get cold from the breeze. Too much work remained to be done. I still had to prepare lunch for twenty people prior to the start of the race, baskets of the ever-present yacht race lunch—sandwiches, cut fruits and cheeses, candy bars.

Within an hour the harbor emptied, and everyone was sailing in front of Saint-Tropez. We would race three times—today, tomorrow, and then, after a day’s break, a third and final race. Patrick was tightly focused, and everyone else knew the drill and was alerted to what had to be done. He also gave
il Dottore
and
la Signora
new Windbreaker jackets like ours, but to honor them as owners, theirs were beige instead of navy blue.
Il Dottore
and Michele stood by the helm acting as navigators and tacticians.
La Signora
wore binoculars around her neck and was standing up, well positioned to observe everything. For someone who gets seasick, she seemed oblivious to anything but winning the race. Rick had gone aft to trim one of the jib sheets. This would also keep him close to the owners in case they needed something. Everyone else was positioned as assigned by Kevin. I was stationed at the foredeck. As amped up as we all were, we had no illusions.
Carina
’s hull design made her a faster boat for this kind of race, and we needed more than a little help from the wind if we were to beat her.

Patrick set the radio to the race channel and turned the volume up so we could all hear what was happening. Excitement on deck built. The fleets of small boats would be first. The announcement was made: “This is the race committee. All six-meter boats will start in fifteen minutes.”

In a predetermined sequence, flags rose and guns went off as the first boats were off. All morning long, class by class, the boats left, and the next classification got ready.

It was about an hour and a half before we received our call: “Ten minutes,
la belle classe.
”

Now it was our turn. Until then we had been trying to stay out of the way, cruising around the bay until we got close to the start, which was about a couple hundred yards from the breakwater. The fleet was assembling near the line, maneuvering around each other under full sail. It was amazing how much physical labor and seamanship it required to make these glorious and magnificent yachts appear graceful, slightly heeling to one side, as they cut through the water. And then the gun fired, our class’s coded flag went up, and the voice on the radio hailed, “
belle classe,
this is your start!”

Just as in a foot race, there is a challenge in crossing the starting line of a sailing race. Getting out of the blocks at the first possible moment but not a split second earlier is paramount. The idea was to approach the starting line under perfect trim and at full boat speed when the final gun went off. If you cross the line before the official start, you will be penalized and have to go around and start again. And if you are not yet at the line when the race starts, you will be playing catch-up, trying to make up lost time against those correctly under way. We all knew that if
Carina
took a significant lead on us at the start, we would not be able to make up the loss.

We had a strong wind that morning, which was good for us but also made for a very physical day. All of the sail changes, the lack of electric winches for most of the sails, and the need for six or seven of us to trim the topsails entailed a lot of active work. Kevin, I could see, had a competitive edge and was comfortable driving his troops. During the race, we’d heave the lines and growl together while Kevin, excited and fired up, shouted, “C’mon guys, HAUL IT, DAMN IT! PULL! PULL! Keep going! PULL THAT BASTARD!”

For the first few hours, things looked good, with
Serenity
holding her own and staying within close range of
Carina.
We all watched her every move. I was told by one of the maxi sailors to keep an eye on
Carina
’s crew. The activity on deck would let us know if a tack or sail change was coming up. This way we could respond as quickly as possible.

Aurora
was being expertly handled not far behind us. But slowly,
Carina
began to take off. At that moment, we knew it was over. We crossed the finish line a few hours later, a far second.

In the second race, the course was slightly altered. This was to our advantage because there would be more off-wind opportunities, and that’s where we excelled.
Serenity
’s long keel was suited for those situations where the wind blew across her beam or from all points behind. She was probably designed to satisfy the yachtsman’s motto “Gentlemen sail off the wind.” With the winds that we’d been having, the extra weapon in our sail wardrobe, the fisherman, would be a powerful tool and no doubt add boat speed. Also, long off-wind legs of the racecourse were great opportunities for me to do prep work, since the boat in these conditions was leveled off and the ride much smoother than anything upwind.

Serenity
must have been a happy boat that day as she powered through the course because we could hear the hum along her hull. We were pretty happy ourselves. With the help of the extra crew, every maneuver, sail change, and trim went off without a hitch. Not one mistake occurred, nothing broke, and none of the other yachts caught us. Victory was ours.

When we crossed the finish line, the first gun sharply declaring us the winner, a cheer went up throughout the deck. There was a lot of excitement from the cockpit, and
la Signora
looked the proudest I had ever seen her. But we all knew that if we were going to win the third race, we would have to stay close to
Carina
right from the start or she would leave us in her wake.

As pumped up as I was about the race itself, I wasn’t excused from my day job. I was still the cook on board, and the owners were still expecting a first-class dinner. Given that we were in France, I decided to create a sequence of dishes inspired by coastal French cookery. I bought some salt cod and made savory profiteroles using the recipe for
brandade de morue
that Madame Quillier, from the shop in Antibes, had given me at the beginning of the summer, when I bought my kitchenwares from her. Then I made a fish soup served with the traditional accompaniments: croutons, rouille—a spicy type of mayonnaise—and grated Gruyère cheese on the side. Rick served the soup from a porcelain tureen. For the entrée, a beautiful
saint-pierre
—John Dory—caught that morning just outside the bay that was baked, as per the fisherman’s advice, with locally foraged chanterelle mushrooms and served with roasted new potatoes scented with garlic and thyme. On the way back from the famous open-air market in the Place des Lices, I picked up a classic local dessert,
tarte tropézienne,
and I made a berry coulis to serve with it. It was the owners’ kids who came into the galley later to deliver the compliments.

The off day gave
the crew a chance to relax and take care of personal business. Patrick spent time at the race committee office checking our ratings and standings. The rest of the crew did what had to be done on deck, and then ran off with friends from other boats. But Rick and I had scheduled time to speak with the owners—Rick with
il Dottore
and me with
la Signora.
Rick told me about his meeting after I had mine.

The morning after he woke
il Dottore
in the middle of the night to pay his bar tab in Sardinia, Rick made a pledge to himself. He was not going to ease the pain of his family situation with drink anymore. And he was going to repay the money
il Dottore
had laid out for him.

Alone with
il Dottore,
he unfolded a wad of colorful French currency, explaining that he would repay the rest of the money shortly. But
il Dottore
looked at the money and placed it back in his hand. “Richard,” he said, “I don’t need your money. You know I don’t need your money. This is not about money. This is about you. If this is how you wish to continue in life, then you may not get much further than this boat. I want to believe that there is better for you.”

Sitting in the same cockpit seat as I had during my interview, I spoke to
la Signora
about the marvelous experience I had been having on
Serenity.
She let me speak without interruption. Finally I got the courage up to ask her if she would be interested in helping me financially with a restaurant project.

She thought for a moment, and then said, “Davide, I have another idea. I would like to propose this offer: we would like you to be our ‘special events’ chef. In addition to summers here on
Serenity,
we have much entertaining to do for business, social, and family events at many of our homes. We can find a place of your choosing for you to live and schedule your responsibilities for the various occasions. You have done a wonderful job this season and have pleased us greatly. I know you like being in Italy. I think you should consider this, not opening a restaurant somewhere back in America with all the work that entails.”

It was not the answer I wanted, but in a way I was relieved. I had not forgotten what Michele said about the personal obligations I would incur if the owners bankrolled me.

“This is a great offer, and I thank you for it,” I answered her. Then I opened up to her more than I ever had before.

“I, too, have been thinking seriously about staying and settling down somewhere in Italy. Also, I have flattered myself into believing that if I stay long enough, I’ll no longer be a foreigner and become an Italian. But maybe not. I don’t know.”

“Davide, you have been looking for something of great value, but you have been looking in the wrong direction. Out instead of in. Let me tell you something you must never forget. To be an Italian is to be yourself.”