Episode 018: How to Sail the French Riviera (Without a Clue)
- Heath Tredell
- May 27
- 6 min read
The French Riviera: where the water sparkles like a billionaire’s watch, the yachts are longer than philosophical debates about "what is art?", and the only thing more unpredictable than the Mistral wind that took us there, is our ability to sail a catamaran.
Marseille: A Smoke-Filled Departure
As we motored out of Marseille, both engines started billowing smoke like a pair of overworked French chefs. This was especially annoying because if you remember in episode 017, I’d just handed over €3,000 to a mechanic who’d assured me, "These engines will run like dreams!"
Turns out, his dream was our smoky nightmare - specifically, the one where you’re stranded in the Med with nothing but a baguette and regret.
Now, I know nothing about engines. My mechanical expertise begins and ends with "turn the key and hope." So, when smoke started pouring out, my troubleshooting process was:
1. Stare blankly and hope it stopped.
2. Nudge Pookie and ask "Is this bad?"
Then
3. Google "boat engine smoking, good or bad?"
Spoiler: It was not good. I was rapidly reminded that the same engineer had in fact said I would need to get a new turbocharger for one engine and have that water thingy bit that cools the engine done soon.
Nevertheless and always keen to get somewhere, we soldiered on.
Breakages: A Love Language
If our boat had a Tinder profile, its bio would read: "Looking for someone to fix me, emotionally and mechanically."
First, a snap link that held up the dinghy snapped—a cruel irony, like a dietitian getting stuck in a bakery. Then the rope clutch gave up, presumably after realizing it was trapped aboard a boat looking for circus laughs.
But did we despair?
No. Because when you’re surrounded by the Côte d’Azur’s turquoise waters and sun-drenched cliffs, every lovely minute spent on the foredeck drinking wine and watching the sun go down feels worth it. So we pushed on..
Goosewing Sailing: A Masterclass in Danger
Goosewing sailing sounds elegant, like something straight out of a yachting magazine. In reality, it’s like trying to fold a fitted sheet - in a hurricane.
However, emboldened by our complete lack of expertise, we hoisted the code zero, the genoa, and the mainsail simultaneously. The wind, sensing our rookie mistake, responded with a hearty "lol" and soon after cranked up the strength to "theme park ride" intensity.
OK. Time to lower the mainsail. Simple, right?
We (OK I) decided we could keep going in the same direction, drop the main sail and all would be well. And so, with the main sail half down I clambered onto the rooftop (because nothing says "competent sailor" like standing on top of a boat with no life jacket on, and wrestling the sail like it owes me money). Pookie, my beloved wife - whose ideal day involves spa treatments and artfully garnished cocktails - was manning the helm.
Then it happened. A momentary distraction (maybe to see what I was doing but who knows? Maybe to see a passing seagull carrying a tiny baguette), and Pookie turned from dead downwind to slightly port (left to you land lubbers). Now this normally wouldn’t have been too much of an issue, but in doing so immediately the wind grabbed what was left of the main sail and, with the grace of a 1 ton wrecking ball, swung the boom towards me.
I had two choices:
1. Become a human pancake.
2. Channel my inner action hero.
I chose Option 2, sprinting out of its way and across the solar panels like a cat at feeding time who’s just heard the can opener.
But the boom, wind now fully behind it, was faster.
Just as I ran out of rooftop and had nowhere but the deep blue sea to look forward to, I spotted a rope - my salvation!
I grabbed it and swung, not with animal call and elegance of Tarzan, but with a shriek and the desperation of a man who’d just remembered that Pookie probably didn’t know how to turn the boat around… Miraculously, the rope pendulumed me back into the cockpit, where I landed in a heap at Pookie’s feet like a shocked, dishevelled, and slightly nauseous superhero.
Pookie stared at me.
I stared back.
We silently agreed to never speak of this again but also never try it.
We never did that again.
Port Grimaud: The Great French Fake-Out
After nearly dying, we needed a peaceful stop. Enter Port Grimaud, near St. Tropez—a place that promised glamour and delivered painted-on windows. Yes, you read that right. The "architecture" was essentially a trompe-l'œil fever dream. Trompe-l'œil by the way means fake architecture – Fun fact Greek painter Zeuxis allegedly painted grapes on his walls so lifelike, birds flew down to peck at them. Anyway, I digress. Fancy balconies? Nope, just brushstrokes on plain walls. Grand archways? Psych! Flat as my post-vacation wallet.
We’d sold our house for this!!?. We had traded homestead stability for fake-painted French architecture? I wasn’t impressed. Pookie, ever the optimist, simply shrugged and said "At least the cocktails are real."
Cannes: Glitz, Glamour, and No Invites to Yacht Parties
Cannes was our next stop and was as stunning as ever - a glittering jewel where the rich and famous pretend not to stare at each other. We’d been twice before for the boat show, where billionaires shop for superyachts like the rest of us browse Amazon. This time, we just wandered, soaking in the same coastline that’s inspired artists, filmmakers, and at least one very confused seagull from Port Grimaud.
So, there we were in Cannes, nibbling our steak-frites like mere mortals, when suddenly - the room tilted. The owner, head waiter, and even the chef materialized like summoned spirits around a nearby table, their faces lit with the reverence of monks spotting the Holy Grail.
The cause? A bottle of Petrus.
It’s not just any wine, mind you – Petrus is the vinous equivalent of a private jet with a champagne hot tub.
The lucky couple (clearly undercover billionaires or possibly wizards) had ordered it, and the staff reacted as if they’d just unlocked a secret level of existence. Then came the ultimate flex: they shared a sip with the staff. The sommelier genuinely looked like he’d been handed Excalibur. Meanwhile, our house rosé suddenly tasted like regret.
Lesson learned: In Cannes, you’re either pouring Petrus… or you’re part of the scenery. The bill for that bottle? Roughly the cost of a new engine for our boat. 🍷💸
Then Antibes: Where Picasso Painted and We Bought Rope
Antibes was out next stop and was a revelation. I knew nothing about it, which made it all the more delightful when I discovered it was Monaco’s artsy, slightly bohemian cousin.
Picasso had lived here for six months and, in a fit of productivity that shames us all, produced 60+ paintings and 100+ ceramics. Meanwhile, I struggled to produce a coherent grocery list.
Yes, Picasso’s former home, Château Grimaldi, is now the Musée Picasso - a must-visit for anyone who enjoys art or feeling like an underachiever. James Bond fans may know that the film “On Her Majesty’s Secret Service” features the Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc, a place so exclusive they probably check your bank statement at the door. We, however, were on a more practical mission: buying a new block for our furler lines and a new topping lift (A rope that holds up the ever-wavering boom). Not quite as glamorous as 007, but hey, we can’t all be international spies.
Monaco: Billionaires with Boring Buildings
So, Antibes enjoyed, we sailed on to Monaco. The land of fast cars, faster money, and a marina so exclusive you need a golden ticket just to look at it.
We’d dreamed of docking in Hercules Marina, where the F1 track loops around it like a tarmac rollercoaster. But alas, it’s invitation-only, and our invite was presumably lost in the mail.
Instead, we settled for Fontvieille Marina, which was still stunning - just without the bragging rights. Monaco was gearing up for the E1 electric car races, so the streets were lined with hypercars worth more than our boat.
The oddest part? For a place dripping in wealth, the architecture was… underwhelming. Aside from the famous Le Casino de Monte Carlo, most buildings looked like they’d been designed by someone who’d only really designed office blocks.
One place where design (albeit in food) WAS appreciated was Rampoldi. Opened in 1946, this restaurant was a masterpiece. Sat in the cosy basement, the food arrived like edible art - so beautiful I almost felt bad eating it. The bill, however, was a stark reminder that we were not, in fact, Monaco’s target demographic. So, after a few days hob-knobbing, we knew (because our Bank Manager begged us) it was time to move on..
To Menton: The Calm Before Italy
Our final French stop was Menton, a sleepy, sun-soaked town where we attempted kayaking. Key word: attempted. We didn’t realize that kayaks have fins to keep them straight. Without them, we spun in circles like a dog chasing its tail. Hours later, sunburned, humiliated and half drowned, we admitted defeat and went for a lovely bottle of wine… and a Indian!!
And with that, we bid au revoir to France. Italy awaited – the land of pasta, passion, and presumably more mechanical disasters. Would we survive? Would we learn to kayak? Would Pookie ever forgive me for selling her house to buy a boat?
Who knows… Stay tuned.
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