The sailor's bride is the sea!

We are strolling through Franche-Comté at a pace of about 50 kilometers per day. Today, our guide Zufall leads us to the small town of Selles by the Canal des Vosges. 

Here we marvel at an antique drawbridge made entirely of steel and rivets, which apparently must still be in operation; otherwise, the small houseboats would not be able to navigate the canal and would have to end their journey on the water. There's no going under, as the structure is too low.

Traffic on the D50 rumbles over the bridge into the town. In the gatehouse right by the well-frequented road, Monsieur Lepont waits for work. When a Pénichette approaches, the young man jumps out of the booth and sets the bridge's turning mechanism in motion. 

However, not much is happening on the waterway today; the peak season for boat rentals has ended. The German retirees now prefer to race along the towing path on E-bikes or enjoy a slow-motion version with horses and shepherd's carts.

At noon, excitement arises from a young tractor driver, who navigates his gigantic vehicle onto the narrow bridge but seriously underestimates the width of the trailer. With loud screeching brakes and a crashing thud, the massive combination comes to a halt in the middle of the narrow crossing.

Monsieur Lepont drops the freshly lit cigarette from the corner of his mouth, the Haflinger shies away from its wooden trailer, and an electric bike crashes out of its stand. A multitude of very impolite curses and honking follows. But the young farmer doesn't let it rattle him. The gear is engaged quickly and noisily, the following Renault makes way swiftly, and soon the tractor is maneuvered backward onto the village road. Soon, peace returns to the canal at noon.

For the big show, we now need a ship to marvel at the functioning of this technical bridge wonder from the 19th century and its operation by hand in all its glory. But our siesta is nearing its end, and I need my afternoon nap. I can barely keep my eyes open, and I'm only kept awake by the French fighter jets that thunder overhead with roaring jet engines every few minutes, barely 100 meters above us. 

A bit annoyed, I make myself comfortable on the After Eight sofa in the Mistral for my daily napping when I hear the excited call of the hero: 'A boat, a boat!' The fatigue is blown away like a feather in the wind, we grab our phones and get into boat spotting position.

The captain of the small houseboat stands on deck and surveys the situation. But in the gatehouse, nothing is happening; no movement, the door remains closed, the bridge blocks his way. His boat veers to port, and the helmsman becomes nervous. The captain reaches for the telescope, but that does nothing to change the calm before the storm. The mate picks up the phone, and we see him gesticulating wildly and throwing his hands over his head in frustration.

What has happened to Monsieur Lepont? Just a moment ago, he stubbed out his cigarette and meticulously disposed of it in the trash can; I observed that closely.
In the meantime, the cook appears from the galley and casts the fishing line; today there will be delicious carp from the canal for the captain's dinner.

The helmsman is now angry and turns the wheel. The captain grabs the megaphone on deck, climbs into the crow's nest, and showers the canal and the entire village with rough sailor curses: 'By the holy Nepomuk, the Klaubauterman, and all St. Elmo's fires, I will keelhaul you miserable landlubbers, walk you over the planks, and have you hanged at the highest mast! I am the conqueror of the seven seas, grandson of Captain Jack Sparrow, and I spin the sailor's yarn so that you can't tell starboard from port! You stinking sprats, you filthy poll monkeys! By my grandmother's wooden leg, by the boarding hook of my great-uncle who led the mutiny on the Bounty, open the locks or there will be mast and sheet breaks as if lightning struck!'

Holy moly! One immediately wants to join and shout, 'All hands on deck, women and children first, we are boarding and capturing!' 
Astonished e-bikers, joggers, and dog walkers stop, and we too are very interested in how this unfolds. Madame Promenade has just returned from her walk, fixes the raging captain with a cool glance, remains unperturbed, walks over the historic bridge, and knocks firmly on Monsieur Lepont's door. After a little while, he pokes his head out the door and sheepishly wipes the sleep from his eyes. 

Now everything happens very fast; we can hardly manage to activate the photo app. Monsieur jumps out of the booth, manually closes the ancient barriers, very careful not to let the counterweight fall on his feet. Then he hurries down the stairs at the quay and uses a hand crank to lift the tons-heavy steel structure of the bridge.

Oh, the wonders of technology: evidently, the steel monster is well-oiled on the pivot and can be easily turned aside with human muscle power. After a few moments, the way to the oceans is clear for the captain and his armada.

The mate sounds the foghorn in farewell, and the helmsman has a few more pearls of wisdom: 'Only a dead fish swims with the current, if the skipper drinks rum in the morning, the backwater will be warped, when the sun rises in the west, you should test the compass! Ship ahoy!'

French bomber jets thunder in low over the cutter, bending the poplars along the canal and causing chestnuts to rain down. Monsieur turns the bridge back, opens the barriers, and the next farmer’s son carefully maneuvers his blue monster tractor over the canal with millimeter precision.

Now I can take my afternoon nap. So much excitement in a siesta, we have truly earned the relaxation! After all, still waters are wet, and one should not praise the crew before the evening...