The French are Coming; The French are Coming

Our sail from Montserrat to Pigeon Island was actually that:  a sail!  We elected to motor east around the north side of Montserrat and when we eased off we found we could sail a close-hauled course all the way to Pigeon Island. The last time we were at Pigeon Island it was a quiet little cove with a handful of boats that take people out to the Jacques Cousteau National Park for some of the best diving on Guadeloupe.  As I looked through the binoculars I saw a forest of masts and large catamarans rafted up everywhere. Oh oh, I thought. Then I could feel the pulsating bass beat from some huge sound system resonating on our bodies; next we actually heard the music radiating throughout the anchorage.  Huge banners flew from the rigging of the cats and all were decorated in outrageous colors and designs. Reading one of the banners I saw the words Hippo Cup 2014; only later did I learn what that actually meant.

Since we got in late and were exhausted from the eight-hour sail, Meryl and I stuffed our ear plugs in and went to bed, oblivious to what was happening around us. With no Internet I couldn’t even research what the elusive Hippo Cup was. I felt it couldn’t be sailboat race since these types of cats have enough trouble getting out of the moorage.

Early the next morning we sailed south in the lee of Guadeloupe marveling at the kaleidoscope of greens as the sunlight broke through the clouds and illuminated the steep mountainside of the island. The last time we sailed along here we got blasted by 20 - to 30-knot gusts blasting down the mountain valleys. Today was no exception. As we rounded Pointe du Vieux Fort out into the open channel the waves and wind got stronger. We tried to motor sail a rhumb line but our speed dropped to 1.8 to 2.0 knots. Meryl suggested we foot off and put the staysail up to sail a bit and that got the speed back up to around four knots. The strategy worked as we approached the lee of Iles des Saints and the wave height dropped down so we could make better speed. The only disconcerting thing was when I looked back across the passage towards Pigeon Island and saw one mast, then two, then six . . . oh my God, the French are coming, the French are coming!

We hustled into Bourg des Saintes, the little anchorage at Iles des Saints and quickly got a mooring ball furthest upwind and closest to shore. Soon after the French armada arrived, banners flying, bikinied French women covering the decks, and the music starting to blast.  Soon their were over 50 large cats occupying every mooring buoy in the harbor.

We took a quick trip into town to clear customs and take a trip to the grocery store. Alas, the bin with baguettes was near empty with just one “no salt” baguette standing there. It took Meryl a long time to shop so I went next door and sat on a porch, where I was immediately befriended by a huge cat (I’m highly allergic to cats and they love me) who wanted to lay in my lap.  I looked down the street and could see a weathered old man pushing a bin of fresh baguettes to the grocery store. Dislodging the cat, I ran yelling “Stop Meryl, don’t buy that old no-salt baguette,” and thankfully got there just in time. Even as the man was entering the store women were grabbing the fresh baguettes out of his basket. They don’t last long here.

A short word about French baguettes. Unless you’ve had one in France or a French controlled country, you’ve never enjoyed a real baguette. Someone told me the ingredients and preparation are controlled by the French government, which leads to the amazing consistency of quality of baguettes as we travel. Similar to the appellation system used to control production of French wines, the French are very picky about their baguettes. When walking down the street about every tenth person has a couple of baguettes under his/her arms, and most likely the ends are broken off and already eaten. A true French baguette (not the ones you get at QFC or Safeway) are a food unto themselves. You really don’t need butter or other condiments, the richness and unique taste of the baguette causes the bread to simply melt in your mouth.  That’s why sailors love sailing in the French controlled islands, the food is really that good.

While these photos are courtesy of their website at www.hippocup.com, they do represent what we saw.

Now, back to our Frenchmen and the Hippo Cup.  The harbor is literally packed with large catamarans. After I dropped Meryl off at the boat I went in search of source of water for the boat, checking out nearby docks, etc.  One the way back I motored into a wall of pulsating sound. Mostly it is what I call Euro/Tech, the kind played in clubs all over Europe. Directly ahead of me was the “directors boat,” and on the bow were seven beautiful young French girls in brief bikinis all dancing to the beat. They waved, and seeing an older man with his mouth agape, they all turned and presented their posteriors (you’ll shortly understand why I’m using proper medical terms here) and wiggled them to the beat. Speechless, I just sat there and tried to remember the French word for “thank you,” Oh to be twenty again.

I needed to take Meryl back to the dock to pick up our laundry and as I waited I got to talk with some the guys off one of the big cats. Turns out the Hippo Cup is an annual “retreat” for young French doctors (500 in this group) usually after finishing their residency.  I guess after all the medical school you’ve earned your right to blow off a little steam. The Hippo comes from Hippocratic. My feeling is the Hippo Cup is heavily underwritten by various medical firms and drug companies, because its quite the production.

Each boat has a theme costume that they wear to the nightly events.

Big Bird would go into heat if he saw this group strutting their stuff.

Now be honest, you haven't ever dressed in feathers and a bikini to attend a formal dinner?

They sail to seven different ports, with a somewhat relaxed race in-between ports. Once they arrive, the fun begins. Almost all boats had huge stereo systems blasting and girls/guys dancing up on the decks. One boat even had a laser light show light like a nightclub that projected up on his sail. After many hours of drinking, jumping off the boat, then drinking some more, each night they attend a huge hosted party ashore. It was like an armada of dingies loaded to the gunnels with colorful bodies. Most of the parties have themes, in that the crews of each boat are dressed in outrageous outfits:  leopard skin tights, police uniforms, tuxes and dinner dresses, S&M themed outfits . . . everything you can imagine and some you can’t imagine. It sounds like the parties get kind of wild. They have full sound systems, DJs, and lots and lots to drink. Now for the fun part.

The next time you have a health emergency in France, this is your medical team.

At about 4:00 am (yes, that’s in the early morning), the formal party shuts down and people retire (that’s really not the right word) to two large cats rafted together just across from us.  I awoke at 5:00 am not believing the music was still going only to see approximately 400 people crowded onto the two cats, so that you could only see the hulls of the boats deep in the water; no piece of deck was visible through all the bodies. It’s now 9:00 am in the morning and they are still dancing. Lots of ribald costumes, but (for the French) very little nudity (I guess if you’re a doctor you’ve seen it all anyway). So as Meryl and I have breakfast and start the day, Abba is blasting across the bay and the party continues.   I can’t imagine anything like this happening in the US. without fights breaking out, the police being called, etc.

You gotta love the French.

Why does no one believe me when I describe this stuff?