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The boys had to be fetched from shore in a dinghy, and then Michel, who has been working at an architectural firm for a year, had to be boated home. On land he proudly drives an old rusted $500 Ford LTD. "Janis hates it," he said, coming aboard. "I had only had little European cars. I very much wanted a big, stupid machine." This was on a Friday, and Michel did a very American thing. He handed his wife his paycheck and got himself a beer.
Then the breadwinner sighed and spoke of work. "A week or two of vacation. Be there on time. I can survive because I have my family, my boat and my house with us. My toothbrush stays in the same place, but I don't have to. We have no future. Zero. Plans for retirement, zero. Plans for college for the kids, zero. I can tell you maybe three months ahead, but no more. We realize thinking too much about tomorrow can destroy today." A dolphin plashed, and Michel said, "I have a very small house but a very big garden."
One day soon the Couvreux family will sail away again. Through the Panama Canal and up the west coast to Alaska, they think, and eventually to Tahiti, of course, and one year or another, Michel says, "we go to France so my boys can be French too." When they are at sea, the boys take correspondence courses that are accredited in France. When anchored, Michel feels schools are important for social intercourse. "They must know there are little girls" (yes, thank heaven, he said, "leetel gulls") "and good guys and bad guys and all those things."
All well and good for the time being, Michel thinks, but what he has in mind | for the boys is a larger education. Before he is through, they will all be citoyens du monde. He uncorked a bottle of vin rouge and placed a large, juicy slab of meat on the charcoal grill. He looked serene, and if there were a word to sum up why, it would have to be a French one, naturally. Debrouillardise, say. Roughly, it means to know your way around.