Day 550 - Voyaging Life the Right Way
Transatlantic Voyage - Day 11 - Meet Francis Hurteau
The doldrums continue. We are dead in the middle of the Atlantic ocean. Below us, the water sinks to a depth of 12,650 feet and we are nearing the Sargasso Sea. We have now traveled 3400 nautical miles. About 1500 remain before we reach Lisbon.
At dinner, Cyn and I dine with Francis Hurteau. On journeys that last 21 days, you make friends and Francis was special. (I mentioned him briefly in post entitled The Tropic of Capricorn.)
Francis Hurteau shares his story with the Vagabond Adventure.
Francis is 82-years-old and suffers from a rare disease that has destroyed his vestibular system. "Eet eeze in my sheenes," he explains in his thick French. (Meaning it's a genetic affliction.) Even with perfect balance, navigating your way from place to place on an undulating ship can be a challenge, but Francis does this with a smile and perseverance, and occasionally a cane.
We came to appreciate many of Francis's attributes during our 21 days at sea: his charm, curiosity, energy, kindness, knowledge and absorbing stories, but I'll mention one in particular here.
During his career Francis spent much of his life making big projects come to fruition. He ran large operations in the auto industry with Renault, the French auto manufacturer. He’s lived in San Francisco, spent 20 years in Mexico City, and much of his life in Paris. He lost the love of his life after 10 years of marriage when she died of a disease that she had picked up while working as a doctor with children from Africa. “She was gone in ten days,” he says, still clearly sad. They had brought two children into the world together, a son and daughter and when his wife passed away Francis raised them both. “On Mother’s Day,” he grins, “they send me a card.”
While talking about his time in Paris, he suddenly pulls out his cell phone. “I will show you where I lived,” he says. “My house.” Cyndy and I, of course, expected to see a nice home or apartment in the city except when he holds up his phone, it is not the picture of a building he shows us, but a ship! A very special ship, one that was docked on the Seine River, just on the other side of the Eiffel Tower. It had been built in 1920 by the Vanderbilt family specifically to ensure that they could, at will, and all by themselves, travel across the Atlantic between the United States and Europe. It’s not every day that you see the yacht of an ocean going steamer. You can see the pictures below.
The ship has six cabins and is over 400 feet long! Naturally, while Francis lived there (from 1976 to 1993), the ship drew all kinds of attention. It was sometimes used as a secret meeting place by French president Jacques Chirac who one time held a special meeting with the press that was meant to be off the record. All of the big newspapers, including the New York Times, joined in the dining, which was provided by Francis. Later he recalls that Chirac came to him, and said, “Your food, it is exquisite!” Francis grins, ear to ear with pride telling that story.
And this is one of the interesting things about Francis. Despite his affliction, and despite all of the places that he has lived and all of the things he has done, despite having to use a cane and struggle now and again for balance, he is like a boy, always excited, always happy, always sharing the joy of being alive. Every day he was smiling. (He often reminded me of my father that way.) And he was not stopping. He told us that he was certain there would be no more ocean voyages after the previous one he took. But then he decided on this one. And when I saw him before we departed in Lisbon, he admitted he was preparing another one.
What’s the lesson? Maybe there isn’t one or maybe it’s that life is good, even when loss can be crippling, and we must all, everyone of us, celebrate it every day. It’s not about what happens to you, it’s about how you bounce back from the things that knock you down. Francis was the perfect example of that, and we, and everyone else on the ship, loved all of the moments we spent with him.
So here’s to Francis and life and never getting knocked down, at least not for long.
