It was in the winter of '68, amidst the smoke of a burning bistro on the Vieux-Port of Marseille, that I first encountered le brave François. While the world was in flames, he stood calm, wiping a glass as if the inferno were merely a minor spill. "Admiral," he said, handing me a glass of chilled Rosé, "le feu is temporary, but a good vintage is forever."
Later, during that terrible tempest off the Bay of Biscay—when the waves threatened to swallow the 'L'Amiral' whole—everyone was at the pumps. Everyone but François. I found him in the galley, bracing himself against the bulkhead, perfectly pouring a 1945 Cheval Blanc. He looked at me with those steady eyes and whispered, "S'il nous faut couler, Admiral, let us go down with grace and a clean palate."
Sans his loyalty, his silence, and his impeccable sense of timing, my journey through the sapphire waters would have been but a drifting wreck. He is the anchor that holds my soul to the deck.