Gerard's camera eye

"The wooden video in the Ice Land"

Sixth episode

The SHORE, Dryland so fervently awaited, can only be reached after crossing a Smoker-controlled zone. No other way to reach Paradise. We can't avoid the Smokers. They radio-control the whole area. What are our intentions? They send a ship that circles round us within minutes. We feel rather apprehensive, aware of what Smokers are capable of. Their boat is up to standard: it coughs and belches smoke. We try to pacify them pretending we are bringing them food. As everybody knows Smokers feed on red tape papers one document from abroad feeds them for a long time with great relish. We satisfy them with a few pieces o information: name, Christian name, captain's age, home address even if you are homeless. No joking with a Smoker. They seem content with that and go away. So we sail on for a few hours, watchfully. Oh! here they come again, more aggressive than previously and one jumps on board. That particular Smoker finds it difficult to remain upright and exhales a strong smell of alcohol, enough to kill off a fly from 30 feet away. Now they want stronger proofs. The man starts filling up a form with concrete details and when he feels satisfied, crumples it and stuffs it into his pocket.
Although we had been as co-operative as we could, we aren't allowed to go on and the Smokers make us follow them to their place which is much like their boats: a huge collection of rusty floating objects. No sooner have we moored than a horde of Smokers rush on board, brandishing forms. Each wanting his share of the feast. Unfortunately there is not enough for everybody. Their chiefs are bound to hear of our arrival and want to take part in the feast in accordance to their rank and importance. I fear the worst. Shall we ever touch Dryland?

Fifth episode

I am at the helm, my turn to be on watch. Four watches, now our fifth crewman has gone. Much to our regret, Eric the Red has gone back to work in France. I am on my own, everyone else is asleep. As usual, Captain Eric has marked the route on the electronic map. I just have to follow it and be on the alert. But I feel like getting nearer the cost. Though the binoculars I can already make out the village, well hardly more than a hamlet. I can't remember the name, but it was definitely in this area. I can recognize the farm and the cluster of houses, also the lonely house on the headland. The disused tractor nearby seems to have been removed. Near the village, I can make out the hot on the beach and the open space between it and the house. We had to run across it as the arctic sterns didn't like us to disturb their nests and would dash at us like fighting planes. The house itself looks quite different: no more dogs. I should have known, they don't live there any more. Some 12 years ago, I had stayed there at a hunter's, trapper, musher, a sort of marginal character as one often comes across in Northern countries. He and his girl friend weren't local people so nothing surprising they should have moved elsewhere. I am glad I haven't mentioned it to Eric. A detour is quite enough. I can't delay the expedition, we are just out of Tromsø. But I was happy to see the place again. Nostalgia…
David wakes me up. We are coming into Gyesvaer, a small village on North Cape. I rush on deck. I mustn't miss the occasion. 8 o'clock a.m. Eric, France and I leave the boat, in search of the garage. I have the photo of the two garage owners. I had taken it 12 years before. There too, many sights have changed. The friends I had stayed with for three weeks have gone. The only people left I know are the tow garage owners, also snow-plough drivers and grave-diggers. In far away places, one has to be a man of many trades!
The streets feel unfamiliar but of course at the time it was snow and arctic night. When we knock at the garage door, the man is speechless with surprise. His wife all in curlers exclaims in Norwegian. She recollects me and the polar night feast when the village people had awarded me the first prize for my costume, though it wasn't very special. Of course, with my enormous motorcyclist clothes and my motorbike on skis, I must have passed for a Martian. We can't prolong our visit as we must be at the North Cape post office before closing time. As we sail off, I realize I haven't asked for their postal address. Just like me! I suddenly appear and vanish just as quickly with a photo taken 12 years before and no address to send it to them. Well, I'll have to come back in a few years"' time and give it to them.

Fourth episode

As we all know, May is dotted with prolonged weekends or "bridges". So there is no reason why we shouldn't take a few in just because we've gone sailing North. So in Norway we had excellent opportunities of coming across quite a few, or rather trying to get under, note across or against. We use bridges to dance on as in Avignon, in Norway they'd rather go under them. And don't forget our wandering Vagabond is first and foremost a sailing boat for which a minimum space is required between a bridge and the water level. It has to be slightly more than the height between the water-mark + the mast and some extra space because of the swell.

Finding no information about il on any map nor on the bridges themselves, the task consisted in matching the height of our mast with the height of the bridges.

So here is the right procedure to deal with the problem. Position Eric Brossier at the helm first, then France Pinczon du Sel at the top of the mast, add a few people gesticulating on the bridge to give it all some added picturesque. The "man" in the crow's nest must possess specific qualities: a total immunity to seasickness, also some practice of acrobatics as our dear boat is prone to rolling and pitching. Just try the following test: in your bathroom, sit in your bath (full of water), borrow your youngest child's plastic duck, make it roll and pitch. You will notice the wretched duck's head moving erratically up and down and sideways. Now try to visualise a similar situation on a boat with a 60 feet tall mast. It is as if you had climbed to the top of a palm-tree in gale-force winds, except that you are at the top of cocoa nut.

Third episode

Eric wakes me up. It's my turn o be on watch. It is still dark and I would have liked to sleep a bit longer. But nights are getting shorter, hardly more than 4 hours. Since we've organised watches, I am the third to be on duty. On entering the navigation bridge, I am hit by the most unbelievable sight: a house, a hundred yards ahead! I nearly grip the helm to change course but I reason; Eric has been steering for a few hours and isn't likely to send us on a collision course. The computer takes over and I start using what's left of my little grey cells. Let's consider the facts: we are on a boat, at sea, consequently no house should be there. No small islands in the vicinity either. Can't be a mirage nor a photo set in front by some funny joker of the crew. So it has to be a house carried by a boat. A big laugh from Eric who steered just straight behind the house, for the fun of it sot that I couldn't see the lights of the boat. Actually the house is on a barge towed by a boat.
For 2 hours, I attempt to overtake the fastest going house I have ever met. When I eventually leave it behind, we are in a very narrow strait, between an island and the coast with a lit up beacon on either side. As we enter the straight, a third beacon appears. No sign of it on the maps. Is it a boat? The night is not so dark now, I should make out the boat's outline. Nothing. This yellow beacon is odd and moves in our direction. Belvildering? My poor little grey cells? a buoy or o ghost ship? Eric still at my side as help and support, dives into to log book to find the beacons and lighthouses chapter. Just as well. Suddenly he exclaims: "It's a submarine!". The helmsman thinks: "Stop joking, my lad". And yet I have to admit it could be. As it passes us, from a distance of some 20 yards or more, I can make out the emerged kick, I pray no pink elephants on some ark come across our path. First a sailing house, now a yellow submarine, if I happen to spot pink elephants, Eric will have me sent back to a lunatic asylum.
I forgot, don't mix up Eric with Eric. There are two of them on board. Eric the red and Eric the blue, not to be understood literally. Eric the red has no family connection with his reknown Viking namesake. It only comes from the colour lf his favourite sweater. As for the blue Eric, he is in fact our captain and leader of this expedition, and don't think he is blue from any bruises, simply his anorak is blue.

Second episode

At sea. 2 a.m. The camera sits on the red and white boat. One engine has just stopped. France who is at the helm vainly tries to start it again. A fellow emerges from the aft cabin holding a bucket, with an ashen face, obviously there is something wrong with his innards. From his expression, one ca easily imagine his secret thoughts; "Let's hope this engine trouble isn't serious; If I have to go down into the hold with the heat and reeks of gasoil I shall not survive?"
At last the engine sputters and starts. The fellow climbs down back to his cabin, still clinging to his bucket. Funny how one ca get fond of such an ordinary thing. True, it is a fine blue bucket but not to the point of falling in love with it. And yet he won't let go lf it and such strong attachment comes from deep inside him.
Well, you've guessed. It is a well known disease among sea faring people. Causing various and unexplained reactions such as refusing to let go of a blue plastic bucket.

First episode

The camera is set on the landing stage. In the viewer, a red and white boat, rather odd-looking, quite unlike most boats. Calling itself a sailing-boat in spite of two powerful engines, invisible to the naked eye as they are hidden away in the hold. What really makes is special is a bulky roof.

Roof: structure protruding from the deck to allow more living space. It's also known as a deckhouse.

Deck: the upper part of the boat you can walk on around the roof.

The living space on ward room includes the galley, the dining-room, the living-room where you may relax, drink a Ricard, play carts or drafts if you can't play cards.

Cabin: closed space usually used for sleeping, or differently if you share it with an irresistibly attractive person.

But the most striking feature of the boat is the white roof obstructing the view on the deck On the red hull, Vagabond in large white letters. The name of the boat. The colour scheme wasn't left to chance. In fact it was predetermined by the water-mark.

Water-mark: a 3 inches wide strip from fore to aft enabling to make sure the boat is floating correctly.

So you can understand the strategic necessity in the choice of colours. Imagine the roof were red and the hull white, the water-mark would become invisible and who could set foot on a boat with no floating mark? Luckily, that's not the case with Vagabond which shows promise of a rich future.

Now we come to the ambience reigning on board. Five people busy themselves back and forth, port and starboard, wave to the crowds, look quite moved. Along the quay, a crowd of people lined up. They wave back, sing, one plays the clarinet, making the occasion even more stirring.

Yes, it is definitely a farewell, the start of an adventure!

Gérard Guérin