Another of the regular Custom Yachting columns in which: Captain Willy Spillet of the Mega-Yacht “Outrageous” spills the beans describing what life below decks aboard these yachts owned and chartered by the rich and famous is really like.
There was a time before the advent of Daily Newspapers being available on the day of issue in the southern Mediterranean when one had to wait until lunch time the following day to read news from home. Sir Arnold was not one to be without his newspapers. He, and his socialite wife, it seemed, could not live without them longer than was absolutely necessary and once they got them, they spread pages across the huge expanse of varnished mahogany table on the quarter deck and poured over them. He would tut tut over the share prices and the gabbling of the opposition and she would count the number of mentions she and her worthy causes had manifested in that particular issue. Needless to say it became the duty of my crew to ensure that never a day went past when the owners were on board that we did not have every copy of every English language newspaper on board the yacht as we cruised the waters of the Cote d’Azur. On one occasion when I knew he was flying in directly from the USA in the evening I actually sent a member of crew home to Luton airport flying on an orange coloured jet from Nice just to visit W H Smith and collect the complete spread.
It was unfortunate therefore that on one particular day when the owners were aboard my crew reported a hiccup with the daily despatches. It seemed that they had not got trough to the port of St Tropez were we were berthed. Fearing that in august the heavy traffic along the coast road may have delayed there arrival from Nice I ordered the crew to departure stations and left a stewardess at the newsagents until the very last minute just in case they turned up. Sadly the gods of Fleet Street were not on my side and so I broke the news to the owners and explained that I realised that we should do something about it and to that end I proposed we should sail immediately for Cannes. Because I had a solution to the catastrophic event Sir Arnold was slightly appeased and decided not to prolong his mutterings about crew incompetence.
Once clear of the breakwater I opened her up to full speed and she quickly picked up her skirts with a shudder as the wake began to cream astern. Scotty the Chief Engineer came to the bridge and asked if full speed was not a little unnecessary given that we burned twice as much fuel as we did at cruising revolutions.
“Newspapers Scotty” I said by way of explanation
“Oh I see” was his knowledgeable reply, he knew how difficult Sir Arnold could be without the daily rags. The mate came to the bridge and I discussed the plan of action. We looked at the charts and quickly dismissed a call at San Raphael because of the lack of reasonable newsagents ashore there.
“I will head for the Golfe de la Napoule,” I said waving my hand at the chart “we will stop off the Marina, chuck the tender in the water, you drive, take a deckie and the chief stew with you and get the papers.”
“Roger that Skip” he said with his usual brevity. The plan seemed to work well. We stopped off the port wallowing in the long lazy swell and launched the fast tender and crewed her up. I knew it would not be long before the owner’s wife would ask me to stop the boat from rolling, she was not a good sailor! I kept the yacht moving at slow speed trying to negate the roll as the tender sped away at quite a clip.
“Cut it back to eight knots as you enter the marina” I cautioned over the VHF. “Rodger that Skip” was the usual reply. Shortly after it disappeared it reappeared around the breaking water and headed back towards us.
“No good Skip they are not here” the Mate reported.
“Don’t come back here” I commanded “you go inside the islands towards Port Pierre Canto and I will meet you there” I said.
“Rodger that Skip” he said. The channel that separates the Port of Cannes from the off lying Iles de Lerins is too shallow for all but the small draft day boats and we headed seawards to pass outside the islands. I could see Sir Arnold was mustering up a moan so I put on brave face and told him what we were doing.
“Humph” seemed to sum up his frustration at least that was all he said.
We got to the old port of Cannes just as our tender was coming out towards us as we slowed down.
“No go Skip” was the terse message.
“You shoot across to the Marina at Golf Juan” I said, “and I will anchor off the Eden Rock Hotel at Juan Les Pins”. One or other of those are bound to have them, I thought. Neither did, and my subtle hints that the owners might enjoy lunch ashore at the fabulous hotel was meet with an icy stare that said I have not even read the newspapers how can I eat lunch? The next best bet was the port of Antibes but as that was around the peninsular of Cap d’Antibes I sent the chief stew across by taxi and told her to meet the tender inside Port Vauban.
“You take the dinghy there and meet here” I ordered the mate. “Full ahead Scotty, give me everything you can” I said in my best James T Kirk voice.
Antibes was a dead loss and I was beginning to despair, I could see the annual bonus disappearing before my eyes.
“What about the airport?” asked the chief stew.
“Good idea” I said “get a cab and get the papers. The mate will bring the tender into St Laurent du Var so meet him there when you have got them.” So with the taxi burning fuel ashore and the petrol outboards on the tender sucking up juice we set off in hot pursuit with Scotty muttering about consumption figures.
“Have you any idea how much these newspapers are costing?” he asked.
“To hell with it Scotty we have to get them” I answered. The airport seemed as fruitless as every where else but I was surprised to see the chief stewardess smirk at me when she said,
“Lets go to Villefranche, I know we will get them there.”
“You follow me in the tender” I said to the mate “we haven’t got time to recover the boat.
“Rodger that Skip” he said just as Sir Arnold came into the wheelhouse and erupted like a full blown Mount Vesuvius. We have found some in Villefranche I said praying that we would indeed locate them there and miraculously that seemed to stem the lava flow of abuse.
We anchored off the pretty town and the chief stewardess went ashore in the tender carrying a rather large bag and returned a few minutes later with a triumphant smile on her face.
“Got the lot” she gloated and handed over the large bag. I took it down to the quarter deck where, as they appeared, my owners became sweetness and light incarnate. While they scoured their newsprint I congratulated the crew and asked my Chief Stew how she knew we would find them in Villefranche.
“Oh we got them at the airport”she said.
“So why didn’t we give them to him there I asked?”
“They were in an awful state when I found them in the waste basket in the arrivals lounge” she said. I need the passage to Villefranche to iron then flat!” She added. She’s a clever girl, my chief stew, but then that’s why I married her!
