The Foudroyant

After a long trip in a small wagon car across the salt marshes to Port-Saint-Louis-du-Rhône, we came to a rusty old trawler listing to one side, called the Foudroyant. After a short conversation with the captain about the terms of my crossing, my father fled, surrounded by a cloud of mosquitoes. I was assigned an iron cabin on the aft deck. I hung my suitcase and bicycle from metal rings attached to the ceiling. There were rats everywhere and it was a good idea if I wanted to protect the leather saddle and tires. Two days later, the Foudroyant, loaded with sea salt and wine, headed for the open sea. The captain had had me sign a paper releasing the Chalutier Malouin company from all liability in case of… We hugged the Spanish Coast, passed through the Strait of Gibraltar in a storm, and then broke down for 48 hours. The ship’s engineer, with admirable foresight, had laid in a stack of bronze and copper bars, and spent his time running from one end of the boat to the other with bits of machinery he had to repair by hand.