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Today, we see AIS targets displayed directly on MaxSea’s charts. Before using MaxSea with AIS, we only used radar. “AIS on MaxSea is «Tip-Top», we saw straight away the benefices we could gain.” In the Channel, there are many cargo ships.
By connecting MaxSea to the sounder, we can have distinct, accurate, real-time bathymetric data for display in 2D or 3D. “Using MaxSea’s PBG, we view accurate bathymetric data very quickly”.
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I also appreciate the on-going effort to improve the software, MaxSea’s developers are constantly offering software updates incorporating users’ suggestions. The remarkable precision and easily controlled functionality of MaxSea 3D first attracted me. “We have had a computer on board for ten years”. Martial makes two trips daily, lasting between 6 and 12 hours, including returning to port. He fishes 1550 meters of long line fishing for eel, cod or haddock. We named the task dinner drudgery -and, after a while, so did most of our six-week guests.Testimonial Martial Lescroel is a fisherman from «La Presqu’île» in Saint Vaast La Hougue, in Northern France Martial generally fishes 25 NM offshore, in the Channel. My father, who was reserved and shy in private, loved nothing better than to have some precocious rising expert in a field keep the conversation going in a few languages while the hot summer sun, after a few glasses of rosatello, ushered in the unavoidable afternoon torpor. Sometimes we’d even open our dining room to the occasional tourist couple who’d heard of the old villa and simply wanted to come by and take a peek and were totally enchanted when asked to eat with us and tell us all about themselves, while Mafalda, informed at the last minute, dished out her usual fare. At meals there were frequently two or three other guests, sometimes neighbors or relatives, sometimes colleagues, lawyers, doctors, the rich and famous who’d drop by to see my father on their way to their own summer houses. for a day or two with their family and take a nostalgic tour of their old digs. They became part of the family, and after about fifteen years of doing this, we had gotten used to a shower of postcards and gift packages not only around Christmastime but all year long from people who were now totally devoted to our family and would go out of their way when they were in Europe to drop by B.
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Summer residents didn’t have to pay anything, were given the full run of the house, and could basically do anything they pleased, provided they spent an hour or so a day helping my father with his correspondence and assorted paperwork. During the winter months, when we were away in the city, it became a part-time toolshed, storage room, and attic where rumor had it my grandfather, my namesake, still ground his teeth in his eternal sleep. For six weeks each summer I’d have to vacate my bedroom and move one room down the corridor into a much smaller room that had once belonged to my grandfather. Taking in summer guests was my parents’ way of helping young academics revise a manuscript before publication. This, the very person whose photo on the application form months earlier had leapt out with promises of instant affinities. Then, within days, I would learn to hate him. With a gruff, slapdash Later! Meanwhile, we’d have to put up with him for six long weeks. You watch, I thought, this is how he’ll say goodbye to us when the time comes.
His one-word send-off: brisk, bold, and blunted-take your pick, he couldn’t be bothered which. No name added, no jest to smooth out the ruffled leave-taking, nothing.
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Then, almost without thinking, and with his back already turned to the car, he waves the back of his free hand and utters a careless Later! to another passenger in the car who has probably split the fare from the station. It might have started right there and then: the shirt, the rolled-up sleeves, the rounded balls of his heels slipping in and out of his frayed espadrilles, eager to test the hot gravel path that led to our house, every stride already asking, Which way to the beach? This summer’s houseguest. Suddenly he’s shaking my hand, handing me his backpack, removing his suitcase from the trunk of the cab, asking if my father is home.
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Later! I shut my eyes, say the word, and I’m back in Italy, so many years ago, walking down the tree-lined driveway, watching him step out of the cab, billowy blue shirt, wide-open collar, sunglasses, straw hat, skin everywhere. It is the first thing I remember about him, and I can hear it still today. It sounded harsh, curt, and dismissive, spoken with the veiled indifference of people who may not care to see or hear from you again. I’d never heard anyone use “later” to say goodbye before. “Later!” The word, the voice, the attitude.
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