Free Mediterranean Summer by David Shalleck Page A

much of himself. A good way to show that I didn’t see myself as better than the rest was to pitch in with the grunt work where needed.
    Patrick, the captain, ducked into the galley to welcome me on board. An American, he called the Côte d’Azur home and made his living as a full-time sailor. His clean-cut features and stocky military build gave him an aura of authority, like someone who was thorough and did things by the book. Having skippered some beautifully maintained classic yachts in both the Mediterranean and the Caribbean, he had originally signed on to manage the refit. That day, he brought my work attire, which would constitute my daily wardrobe for the rest of the summer: shorts, pants, polo shirts and T-shirts, a couple of sweaters, a high-tech Italian Windbreaker, two pairs of boat shoes, and foul-weather gear. Everything had the
Serenity
name and logo printed or embroidered on it and was navy blue, gray, or white. He mentioned that before the first weekend with the owners, we would also have our formal uniforms that would be worn when they were on board.
    “They’ll be cotton, right?” was my immediate question to Patrick. I couldn’t imagine wearing polyester in what I sensed was going to be a hot summer in the galley.
    “No, poly,” he said.
    “The heat down here is going to be rough,” I emphasized.
    He tried to allay my concern by saying, “Let me see what I can do.”
    At the end of the second day, even after everyone else had packed it in and headed to the bars, pubs, or their apartments in town, I stayed on board. It took a while to plan where to put things. There wasn’t a lot of storage space, and I wanted to be familiar with the space I had before the provisioning began. Satisfied that I had done my best with this stage of my prep, I decided to get some sleep so I’d be able to get an early jump on my pantry shopping in the morning.
    Six bunks lined both sides of the crew quarters. When Patrick suggested I pick a bunk in the small but separate captain’s quarters, my first thought was that the owners had told him that I should be treated as someone of rank. Such hopes were quickly deflated when a more likely explanation occurred to me: that maybe he knew something about the owners I didn’t and might be showing compassion for a condemned man.
    I climbed up into my top bunk, turned on my side, and looked out of the cabin at the dimly lit crew quarters. Over a hundred yards of heavy anchor chains would run through steel tubes in the middle of the fo’c’sle and into lockers under the floor. I imagined how much space would be left after everyone brought their gear on board. The open hatch on deck let in the evening chill and the briny smell of seawater. It reminded me that one thing high and low alike would be forced to share on our voyage was the pervasive dampness that goes with living at sea.
    As I lay there waiting for sleep, I focused on keeping my elbow clear of a thick iron deck beam that ran two feet above my chest. With the boat all to myself, I hoped I would get the uninterrupted night of rest I desperately needed. I knew this luxury wasn’t going to last.

Three

    The One Without the Tan

    Cap d’Antibes and the Estérel Coast
    I t was six-thirty in the morning, and I was on the foredeck trying to get through my daily routine of stretches and exercises. The night spent in the damp fo’c’sle had left my joints more than a little stiff, and my elbow ached from being banged against the overhead beam every time I rolled over in my bunk. Resting between sets of push-ups, my right cheek flat against the cold, dew-covered deck, I heard a greeting delivered in French-accented English.
    “Welcome to
zee
pleasure dome!”
    I craned my neck to identify the source of the greeting. A frazzled guy with a must-have-been-a-late-night look was standing next to me, a lit cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth, the smoke getting into his eyes. He extended a hand and introduced