Ile St-Marguerite

Marc St. John was off the boat so early this morning that none of us was even up to say good-by. Which, I think, made us all feel a little rotten. One by one we wandered up top-side, all of us looking as weary and washed out as the gray morning. It’s funny how the mood on the boat swings in such large arcs. So buoyant last night, fueled, no doubt, by excellent wine and a most generous meal. We stayed up late, sipping shots of tequila and whisky, talking about what? I can’t even remember. But there was the definite feeling that no one wanted to be the first to say good-night and thus end not only the evening but, for all intents and purposes, our time aboard Unplugged.

One by one, we’ll disband today. St. John already gone back to London, then Smaller, back to Dubai, and Nicholls on to Kuala Lumpur. By noon tomorrow, only Hardy and I will still be on board.

But, as Hardy pointed out, there was still time in the morning, before Smaller and Nicholls departed, for a final game of bocce. So we took the tender to the old pier just below the fort on Ile St-Marguerite where there is a café, La Guérite, that has a bocce court tucked away in a thicket of myrtle and eucalyptus. We ordered cappuccinos (and Hardy, preferring a little hair of the dog, got a beer), and played a final match beneath a steadily threatening sky. Once or twice it even started to rain, though the thicket was so heavy here that we hardly felt it.

photos by David Lansing

Smaller and I teamed up again, hoping to regain the form we showed in St.-Tropez, and although we won our first match rather handily, our luck ran out quickly and in the second game, neither of us had the touch. There was no rhyme or reason for it; it just abandoned us. Like a player at the craps table who suddenly goes icy cold after running up a mountain of chips. And then Hardy got a call over the 2-way saying the tender was on the way to pick up Smaller and Nicholls.

We settled our tab, walked with them out to the pier, and said our good-byes. The sky was soupy; the wind was up. There was a definite chill in the air. Summer along the Cote d’Azur was over. As was our trip. 

We’d finished our hike around Ile St-Marguerite and were planning on meeting the tender at the stone pier in front of La Guérite, one of only two cafes on the island, when Hardy—or maybe it was Austin—suggested swimming back to Unplugged instead. This was a dicey proposition. For one thing, there was a dive boat between the shore and Unplugged so a swim would necessitate plowing through the dive school that was just now getting in the water. For another thing, these waters are famous for jellyfish and we’d seen a rather large school of them only the day before.

But what the hell. We’d just spent the last couple of hours leisurely strolling through the eucalyptus and pine forests of the island, breaking off into little groups of two or three and discussing those things of morbid interest to middle-aged men who’ve known each other for years, or even decades in some cases, and who’ve watched each others’ hairlines recede and paunches expand. We’d talked of friends we had recently lost; of the dissolution of more than one marriage. We’d reminded each other of when we played tennis every Sunday morning, of ski trips in Switzerland, of falling in love with beautiful women a long, long time ago, when we were more virile then we are now. Both the chilly walk and the conversation had, I think, made us all a little melancholy.

Joseph Conrad said it best: “I remember my youth and the feeling that will never come back any more—the feeling that I could last forever, outlast the sea, the earth, and all men; the deceitful feeling that lures us on to joys, to perils, to love, to vain effort—to death; the triumphant conviction of strength, the heat of life in the handful of dust, the glow in the heart that with every year grows dim, grows cold, grows small, and expires—and expires, too soon, too soon—before life itself.”

photo by David Lansing

photo by David Lansing

And so the boys of autumn—Hardy, Austin, and Roberts—stripped down to their shorts, handing off their shoes and packs to the rest of us, and minced their way down the rocky path, their hands above their heads, their bare feet pointed like ballerinas, until they made it to the chilly water. One at a time they lowered themselves into the water and freestyled, then breast stroked, and eventually back-stroked their pale bodies back to Unplugged. Where, with smug, if tired, looks on their faces, they waited for us topside on the boat. One couldn’t help but admire them. 

The weather has turned. This morning was windy and cold. I’d left my porthole open overnight and small rain slashed in sideways, waking me just after dawn. Usually someone jumps off the boat first thing in the morning as a tonic before breakfast, but this gray morn saw no takers. So we abandoned our plans for water sports and instead had a late, leisurely breakfast of mushroom omelettes and fresh fruit, orange juice and coffee.

And then just as quickly as the ill weather had blown in, it blew out. So we motored into the bay of Cannes, dropping anchor along the northern shore of Ile Sainte-Marguerite, the largest of the Lérins Islands and best known for its stone fort which was home to a number of famous prisoners, none more so than the Man in the Iron Mask who was imprisoned here by decree of King Louis XIV in the late 17^th century.

During the summer a flotilla of megayachts moors in the shallows of the island—so many that they say while party-hopping you can practically step from boat to boat without ever getting wet. But this late in the season things are quiet. If you make it onto the island, which is less than two miles long and about half-a-mile wide, before the sight-seeing ferry from Cannes, you’ll pretty much have the place to yourself. Even if the ferry has dropped off its load, most of the tourists are here to see the Fort Royal or the creaky Musée de la Mer. Been there, done that.

Instead, we walked up the hill past the fort and circumnavigated the island on the sentier botanique—the botanical footpath. It’s a lovely stroll, the red earth path leading you through a thick forest of eucalyptus and Allepo pine trees. Because of the morning rain, the air was particularly fragrant. As the breeze shifted I picked up whiffs of spicy myrtle, sweet honeysuckle, and head-clearing pine.

photo by David Lansing

Every once in awhile we’d come across a couple of bathers splayed across the rocky shore, bagging the last rays of the season, or young lovers snoozing on blankets, their recently-consumed lunch of cheese and bread, fruit and wine spread all around them. Sometimes the couples were in amorous poses and we’d hush our voices and quietly file by, trying not to disturb them.

The pastoral scene reminded me of a famous photo taken on this island 70-some years ago by Lee Miller, a strikingly-beautiful photographer (she began her career as a model for such famous early-20^th century photographers as Edward Steichen) who hooked up with the Surrealist artist and photographer Man Ray in Paris around 1930. She ended up photographing a lot of the most famous artists of that time, such as Picasso, Colette, and Magritte. Her work wasn’t as surrealistic as Man Ray’s but it did have an evocative, other-worldly quality to it. In a way, I guess, it seemed like she was photographing scenes that the Impressionists of that time were painting. You can see what I mean by this photo of hers titled “Picnic on Ile Sainte-Marguerite, Cannes, 1937.” (By the way, that’s Man Ray wearing the cap on the right.)  

Lee Miller Archives, copyright 2008

It’s a lovely photo–sort of a cross between a Gauguin painting, with the two exotic bare-breasted women, and something from Renoir or Seurat. It’s odd, but this island, as small and undeveloped as it is, has an air about it. It makes you want to try and capture it. Shadow, light, texture—as we walked, I couldn’t keep my hand off the shutter button.