The curse of the jet-ski

An F. Scott Fitzgerald biographer by the name of David S. Brown refers to America’s promotion of deviancy (my words) as ‘the great post-Appomattox launch toward materialism’. I liked that line and was thinking about it as I left the boat in the early morning and walked into an almost perfect Greek village square for a coffee. There were some French people blabbing away with their usual hand gestures, Greeks discussing politics at high volume, and then an American couple, both quite attractive, each with a Mac in front of them and absolutely impervious to anyone or anything in their immediate surroundings.

Talk about a launch towards materialism. The two of them never once looked up from their screens. They remained totally glued, expressionless, to that demon plastic – or whatever it is that screens are made of – and failed to look up even when a Greek woman got into a shouting match with an Austrian lady who had taken her chair. In the meantime, they were occupying a table in the café that would have changed hands about three times had it not been for those two extremely annoying Americans. The owner of the café shrugged his shoulders when I told him to ask them to vacate the premises.

Now I know it’s none of my business, but this was hardly a launch toward materialism. It looked more like a storm, a typhoon of blind greed. Mind you, could they have been writing the great American novel? I doubt it and am willing to bet the boat I’m on that it was all about moolah and nothing more. It was, to say the least, dehumanising. Two tables away from them were three old Greek men, with their white moustaches and their caps, sort of leaning on their walking sticks. They each spoke in turn, with silences in between. Small children ran in between tables, women in black passed by without a glance, the French and Italians continued their singsong ways. I just stared at the Americans wondering what had taken place to turn people like those two into soulless automatons. Was it arrogance, self-importance, or lack of understanding of our European culture? And then I thought of Yomi du Roi’s sister.

Yomi was my wife’s childhood, and best, friend until her recent death. She came from an extremely old and good family and was also very rich. Her sister, Princess de Merode, had the bad luck to be targeted by some hoods and have her Paris flat raided. She was tied up and asked where the jewels were. They addressed her in the informal ‘tu’. Her answer was short and to the point: ‘D’abord c’est “vous”, ensuite c’est “Madame”.’ (‘To begin with you address me using the formal “vous”. After that, it is “Madame”.’) And the bad guys followed her instructions, addressed her in the formal vous, and left with all the loot after untying her. Now that’s what I call sticking with protocol despite the inconvenience.

What does this have to do with that provocative display of ethnicity by two Americans clicking away at their damned machines in the middle of a beautiful square oblivious to everything but the mouse pad? Nothing, I guess, because the past means zilch to them, whereas the Parisian hoods robbed the princess but respected the authority she represented.

And now to matters nautical. If God were to grant me one wish it would be to ban the world’s most useless item, the jet-ski. People with a lower IQ than their age master the device on the first try. All it does is pollute and annoy with its noise, and it also kills swimmers and fish alike. Horrible superyachts carry them and even more horrible people use them non-stop. No bay is safe from these pests and the morons who ride on them. Please God, grant me my wish before I shoot one of these pests and end up in the pokey.

Sailing from the edge of Christendom that is Patmos, and heading west, we hit very high winds and extremely rough seas. My son, a great sailor, and the crew put up a storm jib and the mainsail, and battled angry waves all day. I watched the sea crashing on the bow, like something only Poseidon would allow. Thinking back, I haven’t sailed through such a storm since crossing the Messina Straits in 1971 on my first Bushido. That was 51 years ago and we had a knockdown. A sailor went through the skylight and a Soviet troop ship going by whistled at the blonde who was panicking on board.

This time around it was all family. Everything was hunky-dory, and I had to drink a bottle of white and half a bottle of vodka to get a buzz. A wife, a granddaughter and a son on board do not for a dramatic cruise make. We finally made it through the centre of the storm and on to Skinousa, a charming isle inhabited by around 200 people, with one taxi, a few wonderful tavernas and a very pretty Albanian waitress posing as a Greek who my Romeo son immediately went after. There were a few horrors anchored in the bay: triple-decked, refrigerator-like super-yachts, probably making for Mykonos and taking refuge there. I left early and headed for Paros, Kea and then Koronis. We’ve survived winds that would rip the horns off a cuckold (a French expression), and we’re in a very good mood because Romeo failed with Juliet, hence he’ll stick to crewing.