Buffeted But Unbowed in Brittany
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A typical sailing boat in Brittany (Photo by Criselda Yabes)
I wasn’t prepared for the brutality of the waters off Brittany on the western coast. From the port of La Trinité-sur-Mer, I was first struck by the rows upon rows of sailing yachts, their masts standing tall like silver candlesticks. The sight of it replaced my memory of colorful wooden bancas parked on tropical shores thousands of miles away.
We set sail for Belle Île on a Tuesday morning in May, a trip I was warned not to take because of the disturbing lunar eclipse; but that didn’t stop Pierre, the captain of the 36-foot Dufour boat named Bonchamps, from going ahead because he couldn’t care less about astrology. There were four of us on board, Pierre and his wife Nicole and his brother Denis, and myself.
Pierre, the captain of the sailing yacht Bonchamps (Photo by Criselda Yabes)
I couldn’t understand the queasiness in my gut in just over an hour of bobbing up and down the waves. From the cabin below, I rushed out on deck, holding on to the railings, and vomited into the abyss of the gray water. That was just the first of it. When the currents went faster, the boat taking us on up to seven knots (which is pretty fast for a sailboat), the throw-up bucket became my friend.
And then I tried to sleep off the seasickness, after all the retching I had to do when the boat finally reached Belle île’s port of Le Palais three hours later.
The port of Le Palais, the primary port of Belle Île (Photo by Criselda Yabes)
The staff of the Capitainerie (the harbor master’s office), zigzagging on their Zodiac rubber boats to show us where to park in the narrow canal, were women who could pass for magazine models. Feeling a lot more stable, I went out to gaze at the awesome citadel, a stone fortress right by the mouth of the bay. We had to cross over another sailing boat, whose skipper spoke English though he was obviously French, to set foot on land. At last!
The breathtaking citadel of Belle Île, built in the 16th century (Photo by Criselda Yabes)
Belle île’s island life architecture are of buildings painted in pastel with the ubiquitous French windows. At night, the bars and cafes made noises, with the sound of drunks imitating a Molière recital definitely a drastic change of tune from the karaoke blast back home. In the morning, I walked to the capitainerie in my tsinelas for a long hot shower to wash away the malaise I had rarely experienced before. The “Baywatch” girl gave me the door code of the public bathroom that I was relieved to see as if a tunnel had opened.
Denis said no one wears tsinelas on a sailing boat. I didn’t give a hoot. I was comfortable wearing it when traveling around islands, giving me that grounded feeling, though here in France, the beginning of spring weather was nowhere near the heat of the Philippines. Of course, I changed into my walking shoes when it was time for us to see another port called Sauzon by land, a bit further up the coast and from there trek the hills to reach the furthest point, the Poulains lighthouse.
The port of Sauzon, on Belle Île, one of the prettiest islands of Brittany on the western coast of France (Photo by Criselda Yabes)
I would do anything to see an old lighthouse. Denis knew that, and he wanted it to be a surprise. It took us almost five kilometers by foot walking on a hillcrest of vegetation filled with tiny wildflowers. Watching the strong waves of the Atlantic from shore, I asked the sea to be kinder. I was told the sea off Brittany is one of the most difficult in the world. But before any of that, the brothers went reminiscing around the port, trying to recollect their summers when they were children, when their father took the family sailing.
The lighthouse of Poulains, on the edge of Belle Île (Photo by Criselda Yabes)
We sat down for home-made ice cream, at the glacier artisanale, which seems to be a growing fad at every touristy nook; the more unusual the flavor the better. We tried green tea, Ethiopian coffee, grilled peanuts, ginger marmalade, but always, there had to be a scoop of the French favorite, salted butter caramel. I enjoyed watching the young waitresses also make crepes and speak in their elementary English to foreign boys flirting with them.
I noticed, however, that the world around us was quiet, the absence of a frenetic pace associated with tourism and other visitors like us lending a particular atmosphere of politeness and reserved friendliness. In case I hadn’t realized it, Denis pointed out, the tourists that came in this season were of the bourgeois breed, so distinctly attired in their branded but understated hiking outfits (unlike the Decathlon pants I had to buy at the last minute when Denis found out I brought only shorts and tees), pacing themselves calmly and slowly with their Nordic walking sticks.
Their boats were bigger. They carried an air of freedom, perhaps taking advantage of their retirement. Their hair dazzlingly silver and faces so beautifully tanned they looked like they came out of a Ralph Lauren advertisement. You could tell that the bottles of drinks set on their picnic table for an afternoon aperitif on the boat were not purchased at ordinary supermarkets.
It was Pierre’s birthday on our second day, spent fully on Belle île. He opened a bottle of champagne that was quickly finished. There was no cake to go with it, and so early the next morning Denis lined up at the boulangerie to buy a fruit tart before we headed out for our third day at sea, going to a smaller island called Houat (pronounced ‘what’).
We thought seasickness was behind us. Nicole gave me homoeopathic tablets to chew on, and I was diligent with the dosage, just because I’d do anything not to vomit again. Still the queasiness wouldn’t go away. I stayed with the two brothers on what they called the cockpit, the two of them taking turns with the wheel, just so I could have a massive breath of the cool air and the view of the blank, gray horizon, to keep me steady.
When I couldn’t take it anymore, I went into my sleeping cabin, the size of a sarcophagus. I could sleep it off again and the mal de mer would go away. Along with it was the shock that it was happening again, though not as much as the shock that we were about to experience. Sometime late in the afternoon, the boat hit a rock, we heard a big whack beneath us, waking us from our slumber.
A typical house on the island, standing on a cliff by the sea, not too far from the citadel (Photo by Criselda Yabes)
Something went wrong with the navigation. Pierre immediately made a distress call. Denis said I should start praying.
The floorboards went askew and there was a crack by the kitchen sink. We searched for all corners where water might have seeped in – and thank goodness there was none. With darkness about to fall, we decided to moor off Houat and stay the night in the boat. Pierre couldn’t help but open the bottle of whiskey he got for his birthday present, to calm his nerves.
There were other boats within the vicinity and that was reassuring. They were gone by the time we woke up the next day. We were lucky. There was no need for rescue.
The sea was smoother on the way back to La Trinité, the boat running at an average of three knots. I was feeling much better and the sun was out, browning my pale face from a long winter. I’ve been a stranger in this distant place and I worried that I would miss the sun of the Pacific. As soon as Bonchamps docked at port, I went straight to the capitainerie for another long hot shower. Outside was a truck selling crepes, and the guys making them were cute. I bought one with sprinkles of sugar and some lemon syrup.
It was the end of our trip. Walking along the shops and cafes, we just had to stop for yet another round of home-made ice cream. That night Denis cooked dinner in the boat and I showed them how to steam rice the Filipino way. Pierre and Nicole finished their remaining white wine in a silver metallic pouch. We were cheerful and exchanged anecdotes, possibly releasing all the tension we had accumulated from our sailing misadventure.
Pierre said we could have gone to a spa instead for the kind of pampering one should have on a holiday. I thought the same. Then again, this was my idea. I wasn’t homesick anymore. I wanted a memorable experience that would make me understand France, which I might soon be calling my home, too.
Criselda Yabes is a writer and journalist based in Manila. Her most recent books include Crying Mountain (Penguin SEA) on the 1970s rebellion in Mindanao and Broken Islands (Ateneo de Manila University Press) set in the Visayas in the aftermath of Typhoon Haiyan.
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