In the "Sailors confess" series, we confess our stupidest sailing mistakes. But we are also keen to hear your confessions. Send us your text, if possible with pictures, to mail@yacht.dekeyword "sailor's confession". If desired, publication will be anonymised.
Suddenly I was out on the street. The Kirch Group had gone bankrupt and my job as a football reporter no longer existed after the 2002 World Cup. As a thrifty Lipper, I had saved a bit of money and bought a Tirena 27 for 10,000 euros to sail through the Mediterranean.
Unfortunately, I hadn't realised how expensive the Cote d'Azur is and after a few months I was almost out of money. Low budget had become no budget. I couldn't afford harbour places, I had to fish for food and buy water and wine in cheap supermarkets.
I was almost always anchored somewhere and enjoyed the balmy life of a vagabond. Every few days, however, I had to cheat my way into a harbour to fill up with water, recharge the electricity or get a warm shower.
The harbour of St. Tropez
To fulfil an old dream, one day I drove into the harbour of Saint-Tropez and moored between two Russian mega yachts. Even then, the price for a berth was around 80 euros per night - far beyond my means. I was well hidden between the Russian luxury yachts, moored to the railings and jumped ashore. With a mixture of nervousness and routine, I plugged in my power cable, filled up with water and enjoyed the luxurious warmth of a shower.
Caught out!
As I walked back to my boat smelling fragrant, the harbour master stood there gesticulating wildly and insulting me in French. I replied bluntly in German and made up a few new swear words. We finally agreed on English.
"What do you do ere?" he asked me. I stifled a corrective "H" and explained that I had enjoyed a warm shower. I also needed water and electricity for my mega yacht and pointed to my 27 feet.
"You ave to report to the Capitainerie! You can't park ere!" My confession that I simply had no money to pay the harbour fees caused the man's gestures and facial expressions to explode. "J'appelle la police!" he shouted. I let out a feather-light "Excusez-moi". I quickly pulled off the water hose, jumped on board, untied the lines and put the boat into forward gear. The harbour master shouted "Stop Stop", but I wasn't going to let a Louis de Funes lookalike stop me!
The escape
When my 15 hp gave full thrust, I knew: "Shit. The power cable." It ripped out of the shore connection box, and with a bang the entire harbour was suddenly without power.
The scene was surreal: a banging short circuit, a completely freaked-out harbour employee, Russians staring in disbelief, a few cheerful tourists and me - the biggest idiot who had ever sailed into the port of St. Tropez.
I drove out of this cursed harbour at full throttle, pulled my power cable on board and was very lucky that nobody came after me. With shaky hands, I finally steered the boat into calmer waters - and vowed to be more discreet in future and not to take the mickey out of any more English-speaking French people.
