Days in France: 62
Days worked: 25
Days dockwalking: 1
Days on the beach: 27
Those figures about sum it up. The work, of course, was on yachts. Some days I worked in Monaco, others in Cannes, others in Antibes. The vague plan at the beginning of it all was to serve champagne to the rich and famous on these mythical superyachts and retire after a month to afford my own yacht. This didn't quite happen. Roman Abromovich was indifferent to my arrival and didn't send in a specific request for my services. I admit that this is not surprising, and in fact sensible, considering my service abilities. I ended up having a few days work here and there and one 10 day charter I have already written about.
There is much commotion about the easy money and fancy lifestyle involved with these superyachts. The lifestyle is fancy and the money is easy but it leaves a funny taste in one's mouth. I am not anti-money but there is something sordid about it all. Especially the way in which it affects people. It must be said that the yachting industry is an alluring one but bare in mind that it can attract a special breed of asshole. (That is just a sweeping generalisation and should not be paid much attention, unless, of course you are considering going into the industry because then it is very relevant.)
The South of France is a dazzling and impressive place, rich with the legends of Brigitte Bardot and St. Tropez, the world's most beautiful women on the world's most expensive super yachts, the Grimaldi family and the Monaco casino. The region is dripping with wealth. The mind boggles at the amount of money and the value of the yachts from St. Tropez to Monaco, a mere 80 km stretch. The money falls though the cracks and people like myself are here to pick it up.
The work was uninspiring. Mopping decks, polishing steel, scrubbing the hull and ensuring that everything was spotless, as clean as it was before cleaning even started. The tediousness of it all was not an issue. Just make sure it shines. I almost enjoyed the rhythm of it but despised the futility.
Like other places, though, the work was never the main attraction. I work to live, I don't live to work and especially if that work involves waxing, polishing or scrubbing. The attraction was meeting up with old friends, lapping up the back end of the European summer and trying out something new.
My chief residence was at the crewhouse in Antibes. The crewhouse is a permanent hostel for yachties that sees some of the workers pass through for a few days while others stay for the entire season. It was a gold-mine for jobs, parties and discarded clothes.
Jobs
Due to the nature of the crewhouse alot of work came through that was easy to pick up. The trick was simply to be there at the right time. All the work I got came throught the crewhouse, either from the manager who I tried to charm everyday so she would favour me and the other guys that stayed there that knew of work going. I ended up attempting the dreaded dockwalking (when you walk along the docks and approach the different yachts unsolicited) for only one day in Cannes, unsuccessfully. The work was mind-numbing but the food was possibly fantastic. Some boats had chefs that spoiled their crews with a variety of dishes with salads, chicken pies, prawns and ribs not out of place. After eating fishfingers and rice for three months in Greece this was a welcome and revolutionary treat.
Parties
There were about forty of us staying in the crew house and it was a mixing pot of nationalities and personalities. Mostly antipodean and British, some of the people were focused on finding permanent jobs and didn't get too sidetracked while most had the typical yachtie mentality of work hard and play hard. I've never seen this mantra so exposed as it is in the yachting industry. These guys work for three months straight without a break like dogs and then have three days before another spell. This tiny break in an otherwise hectic work schedule is inevitably a massive binge.
If these binges are lucky it will be over the weekend. Friday was always the biggest night, with much of this attibuted to the phenomenal foam parties that took place every Friday in Antibes. I have never seen anything like it in my life. I remember saying on my way to the party the first time I went "I hope it's one of those cool foam parties and not a lame one, you know, the ones where it is mad and the foam comes up to your thighs". It was mad, very mad. Picture this. As you enter the club there is a glass-walled shower on your left and a long bar on your right. Straight ahead is a sunken dance floor with stairs leading down evoking a sense of a pool. The pool/dancefloor is surrounded by dancing cages on either side and in the middle of the ceiling above the dancefloor is a contraption that looks like a washing machine minus the door. Out of this hole pours an intermittent pillar of foam that people throw themselves through. It is a bubble waterfall of fun that everyone splashes and sploshes and spins around in. The foam beams out at such a pace that in a few wet moments the foam has filled up the entire dancefloor and rising. Up to your waste and rising, up to your chest and still rising, up to your neck and you are starting to worry but you are having too much fun and then you lose sight of the exit and you're in it, completely immersed. You flail around and catch someone's face and pull them closer and it's Dan from the crewhouse, "I can't see" you scream, "Neither can I" he laughs. As fun as it was it had a slight danger to it. The first time we went a girl jumped off the stage and slipped on the soapy floor, went under for fifteen seconds and reappeared on the other side of the dancepool with a cut warranting eight stitches in her head. The next time we went, a girl fell backward and broke her shoulder. It is rough out there. What makes it more interesting is that it was at the only gay club in town, Cleopatra. On Fridays they put the homosexuality on standby as the heterosexuals invaded their space. There was also a free buffet of ribs, chicken pieces and hotdogs throughout all of this. It is hands down the best party I have ever been to.
Discarded clothes
Days worked: 25
Days dockwalking: 1
Days on the beach: 27
Those figures about sum it up. The work, of course, was on yachts. Some days I worked in Monaco, others in Cannes, others in Antibes. The vague plan at the beginning of it all was to serve champagne to the rich and famous on these mythical superyachts and retire after a month to afford my own yacht. This didn't quite happen. Roman Abromovich was indifferent to my arrival and didn't send in a specific request for my services. I admit that this is not surprising, and in fact sensible, considering my service abilities. I ended up having a few days work here and there and one 10 day charter I have already written about.
There is much commotion about the easy money and fancy lifestyle involved with these superyachts. The lifestyle is fancy and the money is easy but it leaves a funny taste in one's mouth. I am not anti-money but there is something sordid about it all. Especially the way in which it affects people. It must be said that the yachting industry is an alluring one but bare in mind that it can attract a special breed of asshole. (That is just a sweeping generalisation and should not be paid much attention, unless, of course you are considering going into the industry because then it is very relevant.)
The South of France is a dazzling and impressive place, rich with the legends of Brigitte Bardot and St. Tropez, the world's most beautiful women on the world's most expensive super yachts, the Grimaldi family and the Monaco casino. The region is dripping with wealth. The mind boggles at the amount of money and the value of the yachts from St. Tropez to Monaco, a mere 80 km stretch. The money falls though the cracks and people like myself are here to pick it up.
The work was uninspiring. Mopping decks, polishing steel, scrubbing the hull and ensuring that everything was spotless, as clean as it was before cleaning even started. The tediousness of it all was not an issue. Just make sure it shines. I almost enjoyed the rhythm of it but despised the futility.
Like other places, though, the work was never the main attraction. I work to live, I don't live to work and especially if that work involves waxing, polishing or scrubbing. The attraction was meeting up with old friends, lapping up the back end of the European summer and trying out something new.
My chief residence was at the crewhouse in Antibes. The crewhouse is a permanent hostel for yachties that sees some of the workers pass through for a few days while others stay for the entire season. It was a gold-mine for jobs, parties and discarded clothes.
Jobs
Due to the nature of the crewhouse alot of work came through that was easy to pick up. The trick was simply to be there at the right time. All the work I got came throught the crewhouse, either from the manager who I tried to charm everyday so she would favour me and the other guys that stayed there that knew of work going. I ended up attempting the dreaded dockwalking (when you walk along the docks and approach the different yachts unsolicited) for only one day in Cannes, unsuccessfully. The work was mind-numbing but the food was possibly fantastic. Some boats had chefs that spoiled their crews with a variety of dishes with salads, chicken pies, prawns and ribs not out of place. After eating fishfingers and rice for three months in Greece this was a welcome and revolutionary treat.
Parties
There were about forty of us staying in the crew house and it was a mixing pot of nationalities and personalities. Mostly antipodean and British, some of the people were focused on finding permanent jobs and didn't get too sidetracked while most had the typical yachtie mentality of work hard and play hard. I've never seen this mantra so exposed as it is in the yachting industry. These guys work for three months straight without a break like dogs and then have three days before another spell. This tiny break in an otherwise hectic work schedule is inevitably a massive binge.
If these binges are lucky it will be over the weekend. Friday was always the biggest night, with much of this attibuted to the phenomenal foam parties that took place every Friday in Antibes. I have never seen anything like it in my life. I remember saying on my way to the party the first time I went "I hope it's one of those cool foam parties and not a lame one, you know, the ones where it is mad and the foam comes up to your thighs". It was mad, very mad. Picture this. As you enter the club there is a glass-walled shower on your left and a long bar on your right. Straight ahead is a sunken dance floor with stairs leading down evoking a sense of a pool. The pool/dancefloor is surrounded by dancing cages on either side and in the middle of the ceiling above the dancefloor is a contraption that looks like a washing machine minus the door. Out of this hole pours an intermittent pillar of foam that people throw themselves through. It is a bubble waterfall of fun that everyone splashes and sploshes and spins around in. The foam beams out at such a pace that in a few wet moments the foam has filled up the entire dancefloor and rising. Up to your waste and rising, up to your chest and still rising, up to your neck and you are starting to worry but you are having too much fun and then you lose sight of the exit and you're in it, completely immersed. You flail around and catch someone's face and pull them closer and it's Dan from the crewhouse, "I can't see" you scream, "Neither can I" he laughs. As fun as it was it had a slight danger to it. The first time we went a girl jumped off the stage and slipped on the soapy floor, went under for fifteen seconds and reappeared on the other side of the dancepool with a cut warranting eight stitches in her head. The next time we went, a girl fell backward and broke her shoulder. It is rough out there. What makes it more interesting is that it was at the only gay club in town, Cleopatra. On Fridays they put the homosexuality on standby as the heterosexuals invaded their space. There was also a free buffet of ribs, chicken pieces and hotdogs throughout all of this. It is hands down the best party I have ever been to.
Discarded clothes
I like and need to travel light. At the beginning of summer I got rid of all my winter clothing bar one hoody which I promptly lost. Six months later, with winter approaching and a limited clothing budget, fate intervened. I was looking for a lost t-shirt in the lost property when the manager of the crewhouse said I could take whatever I found because it was going to waste. I found a pair of shoes, a pair of socks, three t-shirts, two hoodies and a Tommy Hilfiger rugby shirt. Sweet sweet karma.
Highlights of France were going to Italy for the day, the Monaco Boat Show, losing big in the casinos and David Guetta and Tiesto in Nice. The rest of the days were dedicated to the beach, drinking cheap rose wine, reading magazines and books, chatting and almost always accompanied with a mango and lemon icecream. My feet would of been perpetually sandy if it were not for the pebbles. But the days of sun and sea are over now as I am going to wash away it all with a stint in the wettest region of Norway where it rains for 275 days of the year, just to balance things out a bit.
fuck mat that foam party seems unbelievable!!!
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