Airbnb Experiences: Sailing in Antibes
Salt clung to my skin, almost starting to itch. I scooched across the padded seat and hid my toasted shoulders under the sunshade that was set up over the ship’s helm. Looking out across the blue of the sea, my gaze rested on sunbleached rocks that rose like fists from the rippling blue waves.
A group of three boys practiced flips off the side of these rocks, while a trio of girls in carefully tied bikinis walked cautiously to the edge before leaping out and into the water.
I’d been up there myself thirty minutes prior, also throwing myself down into the sea (despite having promised myself to never jump from anything again after the wakeboarding bridge incident that left a bruise across the entirety of my upper thigh). But ce la vie—it is what you do in Billionaire’s Bay, and I hadn’t been able to resist.
Exploring Cap d’Antibes via Airbnb Experiences
Summary:
The experience: We chose this one
Length: 7 hours (10 am to 5 pm)
Provided: Boat, Water Toys, Water, Pastries
What to Bring: Lunch, Towels, Drammamine if You Get Seasick
What to Know: You’ll sail along the coast of Antibes. The hosts are very knowledgeable and have lots of fun personal stories to share. You may or may not be able to sail (dependent on the wind).
Price: $177 per guest
Max no. of guests: 8
Arriving at the Société des Régates d’Antibes
We thanked our Uber driver, Merci Beaucoup!, who had driven us from Cannes to the marina in Antibes, and stepped out of the car in the parking lot of the Société des Régates d’Antibes. We had been nervous about missing the boat, so we’d opted for a car on the way there. On the way back, we would take the train.
Antibes is near both Nice (30 minutes by train) and Cannes (20 minutes by train), and the train station is only a ten-minute walk from the Société des Régates d’Antibes.
We were dressed in matching sundresses and hats, inspired by the ICONIC (and endlessly kooky) ladies of Bravo’s Love Hotel. Looking trés fabulous (if we do so say ourselves), we scanned the dock and quickly spotted a woman in a polo shirt and a suntanned shirtless man, whom we recognized as Cédric (our captain and host for our Airbnb sailing adventure).
Shoes off, picnic stored
We approached and listened as the woman (who would turn out to be Cédric’s wife, Nhatalie—and for all intents and purposes, the captain as well) instructed another guest who’d arrived to remove her shoes and place them in a little woven basket that was on the dock.
We followed suit, removing our sandals before stepping onto a small wood-and-metal platform at the stern. Then we crossed the deck to the helm, where a U-shaped seating area was located. It encircled the large chrome steering wheel.
Taking seats, we turned back to the stern to watch as the final two guests arrived.
Cédric was here and there, checking on things while Nhatalie brought over our bags and the bag of shoes. With everyone on board, Nhatalie came up from dropping the shoes in the boat’s cabin to greet us and asked if there was anything we needed stored in the fridge.
Boy, did we have things to store!
This was an all-day sailing adventure, and though the Airbnb Experience mentioned there’d be water and snacks, it was recommended that we bring picnic food—and we’d done more than that.
Our Airbnb in Cannes was located above a fromagerie, Le Fromager Gourmet, where we’d fallen completely in love with two men who had sliced us thick pieces of cheese and butter (and had laughed at our antics as we’d picked out rosé and my favorite omnivore friend giggled gleefully over a package of mortadella).
We’d also spent the previous afternoon browsing through other little shops, finding flavored almonds and an olive spread for myself (because I cannot eat soft cheeses or mortadella or paté).
We’d also brought extra water (given we’d almost passed out from heat exhaustion on our walk from the train to our Airbnb in Cannes), and some Coca-Zeros, as we’d become quite dependent on them during this trip. Who has time for jet lag when the sun doesn’t seem to set, and les Français never seem to tire??
I prioritized getting the cheese, mortadella, and paté into the fridge along with one of our bottles of rosé, then hopped back up from the cabin to take a seat and prepare for the day’s adventure.
Coffee, pain au chocolat, and Old Town Antibes
Speaking in quick French to one another, Nhatalie took the wheel while Cédric flicked off the ropes that had tied us to the dock, moving around as we began to leave the berth, pulling up the fenders as we went. Cédric was, at this point, wearing a white shirt which he’d pulled on upon seeing the first of us arrive.
As we exited the marina, we passed massive yachts, some of the biggest in the world, and I couldn’t help but think of Below Deck as we made our way out into the ocean.
Nhatalie steered us to the right, and Cédric asked if anyone wanted coffee. I, of course, can never say no to a cup. Oui, si vous plais. A moment later, a tray with three glass cups steaming with coffee was brought out from the cabin, followed by a tray of croissants and pain au chocolat.
I took a sip of the deliciously rich coffee. It was surprisingly delicious, almost chocolatey, and I wondered how it had been crafted in the little French press I’d seen in the boat’s cabin. My own daily French presses at home never seemed to taste like the rich coffee I was enjoying today. I chalked it up to everything being a little better when you’re on a sailboat coasting past sandy shores and crystalline water.
I alternated sips of coffee with bites of the delightfully flaky pain au chocolat, then sat back and listened to Nhatalie as she explained that the town we saw to our right, medievel yet charming in its appearance, was Old Town Antibes.
From our position on the water, we could see the stone buildings rise from behind a stone wall along the shore.
“It’s more French style, you see,” Nhatalie said, her hands on the wheel and her eyes gazing out over the bleached stone to where the Italian influences were balanced with French.
Having become part of France during the annexation of Provence in 1481, Antibes has been a part of the country for many years, despite being first a Greek port and then a Roman town.
There were centuries of war in the area, and Antibes was one of the southernmost areas of defense for France, so the architecture reflects this. It is very strange to think that war-driven architecture can be something beautiful, but the Fort Carré was designed to prioritize both defensive features (the ramparts we could see from the boat) as well as the mathematical principles of architecture to ensure it was still aesthetically pleasing.
It seemed to me that in France, beauty was never left by the wayside, even when aesthetics were arguably less important than functionality.
I felt a bit of regret that we didn’t have time to walk through Old Town during this trip, so made a mental note to add it to a future to-do list. (Because I’d be back, of course).
Cédric had retreated to the back of the boat where a fishing pole was set up. He would occasionally remark on this or that, but mainly focused on fishing while Nhatalie gave us informative insights about the area (including the fish her husband was looking to catch) and anecdotes about living the life of a French sailing family.
Cédric is living his best life, we whispered to one another, loving that he’d figured out a way to quietly enjoy himself on his boat and still make a living.
Nhatalie seemed to genuinely enjoy talking to us while steering in the direction of the Cap d’Antibes. We chatted about the types of fish they usually caught (always eaten after), the time they’d seen dolphins on one of these sailing tours, and enjoying the view of a children’s sailing race that happened to our right.
Fake money and nobody owns the beach
As we continued to make our way toward the Cap d’Antibes, we saw a trail where people were walking with backpacks along the coast.
“You can walk all the way to the beaches,” Nhatalie explained.
We noticed a few areas along the shoreline where the beaches had been made private, closed off from others unless they could afford to pay to access the shore. This, although illegal, seemed to still be happening here. “Boys of Summer” lyrics popped into my head, nobody owns the beach, I wanted to shout!
We continued on, passing “Billionaire’s Bay,” where we’d later come back to anchor and play.
“It was once called Anse de l’Argent Faux,” Nhatalie said, “fake money.”
According to Google’s AI results, the bay was given this name because its waters sparkled like riches… If you want to believe that, you can, but I’m pretty sure it had more to do with the people who had started to frequent it on their big boats back in the day. Nouveau riche is a French word, after all.
I embraced that original name. After all, here we were, chartering a sailboat in one of the most picturesque places in the South of France, pretending to be rich (if only for a day!).
Sailing around the Cap d’Antibes
We rounded around the furthest outlet of land and Nhatalie pointed out one of her favorite beaches, lined with pine trees.
“The only thing,” she explained, “is that there are no cars. This is good and makes it better, but you have to carry all of what you need with you if you want to go to these beaches.”
That sounded like my type of beach, too, and I thought about how last summer, two friends and I had canoed out to an island for a camping trip along the shoreline. It had felt wonderfully hidden and peaceful, away from any traffic sounds. Of course, this requires careful pack-in, pack-out dedication, but it was so worth it for the feeling of being away from it all.
We rounded the corner of the Cap d’Antibes and turned into the next protected cove, catching a glimpse of a longer shoreline dotted with white buildings like the Golfe-Juan hotel. White buoys floated in the water, and other sailboats were anchored in this area. It gave us a full view of Antibes, and if we peered through the haze we could almost see the islands off of Cannes.
When we’d had a moment to gaze out across the coast, we turned around to head back the way we’d come.
“We’ll anchor, picnic, swim, and then if the wind picks up, we can sail,” Nhatalie said.
As we rocked forward, the up-down motion of the sailboat soothing to some of us, and not so soothing to others, Nhatalie told us about her and Cédric’s children. She was a proud mom, and her children knew how to sail, windsurf, and dive. They’d competed in water sports in the past, and as a family, had spent months living on their boat.
She asked us, curiously, about America’s time-off policy.
“Is it true you only get two weeks?”
“For a lot of people,” we replied, “though some of us have more or ‘unlimited’, but we don’t often take advantage of it.”
“In France, it is a minimum of five weeks,” she said, thoughtfully.
The sun glinted across the crests of mini waves that were created by the consistent churn of boats. Another sailboat next to us was raising its sail, and the captain seemed annoyed that we were passing them, despite us having the right of way on the left side. Perhaps it was the fact that the wind was very nearly non-existent, and they likely were struggling to get moving with their sail.
We neared Billionaire’s Bay once more, and Cédric, who’d finished with his fishing and had been checking this and that in the cabin, suddenly popped up to ask if anyone was feeling sick.
When no one replied in the affirmative (despite one guest feeling a bit ill), he gave a short nod and explained that we could then go into Billionaire’s Bay and anchor to enjoy some leisure time. “If no one is sick, we can go in. It is rocky in there. But it is good if we can go in. It is our favorite place. Our playground.”
I would soon learn that he was not exaggerating and that once upon a time, he’d been quite the cliff-diving daredevil. Ah, Cédric, not surprised!
Billionaire’s Bay: Struggling to Stand-Up Paddleboard, Snorkel, and Santé
We anchored across from the curved sandy beach, out toward the mouth of the cove. We were parallel to a medium-sized rock where a young boy in blue boardshorts was climbing. Cliffs rose behind it, and a pathway was visible running down toward the beach. It continued on to where another rampart, partially washed away, and a stairwell into the water could be seen to our left.
Nhatalie and Cédric unhooked two stand-up paddleboards and a dinghy from the back of the boat and arranged them in the water, hooking a carabiner to each so that they wouldn’t float away.
We were instructed to only jump from the back of the boat, never the sides, and we immediately launched ourselves into the water.
Two of us hopped onto the blue stand-up paddleboard. I was eager to take it around nearer to the shore and to get some movement in my body. I’ve paddleboarded quite a few times in my life, so I had zero hesitation as I prepared to launch myself to my feet while my other friend stayed seated.
“BUTT IN FACE,” she yelled as I realized that my balance was not quite as agile as I’d thought it was and I had to crouch to avoid tipping us over.
What I hadn’t realized was that boats were constantly coming in and out of the bay, and this created waves that were bigger than I had originally anticipated. The bays I’m used to paddleboarding on are fairly flat.
So it was with shaky legs and more than a few almost tipsy-overs that we explored the watery landscapes. I did two laps around before returning and, upon seeing two other guests wearing snorkel masks, decided that swimming with a mask was my next task.
Hooking the paddleboard back to the boat, I borrowed one of the masks and jumped back off into the water.
There were so many FISH! Right there!
The ocean floor was covered in finger-shaped limu, and I tried to dive deep, reaching colder water, to take a closer look. Later, on the boat, Nhatalie would pull out a fish identification chart and we’d be able to read about the fish that swam around us (about the size of my fist and blue), but unfortunately, I can’t remember what the paper listed them as.
Surfacing from my swim, I saw with intense jealousy that my friends were already sipping on a glass of rosé each and spreading cheese on crackers.
“Hey!” I shouted while treading water.
Then I swam over quickly and hauled myself back on deck.
“We didn’t think your water adventures would be over so quickly,” they said.
That was a good assumption, I had to give them that, but “I can have some cheese and rosé and go back to my adventures after! Santé.”
Billionaire’s Bay: Jumping Off Rocks (Because How Could I Resist?)
The sound of shouting could be heard over the gentle lapping of water against the boat, and we watched as the boy in the blue boardshorts climbed up the rock once again. He was shouting down to his friends who watched him, and a group of adults who were also observing him from a boat parked not far from the rock.
Four other children jumped out from that boat (as well as one of the grown-ups, who I’m assuming was a father) and swam over to the rock to climb up with the boy.
It became clear that one of the girls, Lily, was terrified of heights, and her mom called from the boat, “watch her!”
I could hear her say in a lower voice, “I don’t know if I want her up there.” But, of course, it was too late, and with the urging of the other children (as well as who I assume was the father), the girl made it to the top.
One by one, each child launched themself from the cliff. The first girl, resurfacing after hitting the water, cried out, “that was the coolest thing ever!”
When it was finally Lily’s turn, she stood trembling for a long time, unable to fully let go of the rock behind her. The rest of the kids shouted encouraging things while the dad sat on the rock and held her hand to steady her. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to jump. Her brothers started to count down from ten, and she shouted, “STOP! THAT’S NOT HELPING.”
“Oh, come on, Lily. Just jump already!” Her little brother yelled from the water.
It was such a sibling moment, and I had to chuckle to myself.
It took a bit more coaxing, but finally she launched herself into the water below. When she surfaced, her reaction was unlike her friend’s: “That was the scariest thing I’ve ever done. I will never do that again.”
I wondered if I’d have the guts to jump.
I was feeling more frightened of climbing up to the jumping point than actually jumping.
“Will you jump?” Asked Nhatalie from beside me.
“I think so,” I replied, studying the rock.
“Many people do. In the peak of summer, there is so many people on that rock. A line of people waiting to jump. Some people jump from the high ones. They wear the special shoes so they can climb up to them and then jump. You know, Cédric used to jump from that one,” she pointed to what appeared to me as an epic tower of rock, “and do flips. Sometimes the sounds are not so good when they hit the water.”
Okay, Cédric… we see you.
There’s something so iconically “summer” about jumping off a rock into a body of water. Why is that? It probably comes down to us basically being brainwashed by movies where summer nostalgia is portrayed with teens holding hands as they jump off a dock into a lake.
Or maybe it’s because I spent so many childhood days shook to my core as I waited for my turn to plunge off the rock at Waimea Bay (25-30 feet high) only to have my bathing suit top fly off and my bathing suit bottoms go so far up my butt I am not sure they’re even on anymore. Or the number of times I clambered along the broken lava rock wall to Doris Duke’s pool and attempted plunges into the water and praying that a big wave wouldn’t come in. That was the ultimate SABS (see and be seen) destination of pre-teen summers. You never knew which boys would be there, showing off how many flips they could do into the water below.
Whatever the reason, the draw to this type of activity has yet to die in me, despite absolutely LOATHING my recent launch from a 30-foot high bridge, from which I landed on my side, and thought to myself (like that little girl) that I never needed to do something like that ever again…
I swam over to the rock, arriving just as another couple (likely a few years younger than me), began the ascent.
I was careful to observe how the children were making their way up the rocks. Speaking quickly to each other in French and scaling the holds to the left. The couple paid less attention and struggled up the right side of the rock face, which at first appeared to be the easier climb, but was actually far more challenging.
I waited, then pulled myself onto the first slippery portion before moving to the left and finding a handhold and a foothold, hauling myself up to the flat portion.
The woman jumped first, landing in the water below with a splash. Her husband did not move so quickly.
“I have a thing about heights,” he said by way of explanation.
From above him, the boy in blue boardshorts (who’d graduated to a slightly higher part of the rock, which required him to launch himself out far enough to miss the gradient), told him, “it’s not scary. You just have to do it.”
From below, his father in a wonderful French accent called out, “there is nothing below. It’s deep. I have done this many times. It is better to just jump. Do not let yourself think.”
That felt like the motto of this entire trip, and I smiled.
The man asked if I wanted to jump first, and I said okay, since waiting can often lead me to second-guess myself, and I was starting to become nervous that I’d be afraid if I didn’t jump soon.
I did what the man in the water had said.
I did not give myself time to think.
I jumped.
It was the perfect height to fall from.
Nothing hurt when I hit the water. There was enough time in the air for me to feel that falling sensation, but it was not so long that I was afraid.
FUN!
When I popped back up to the surface, I cheered as the man conquered his fear of heights and jumped as well.
Back on the boat, I stayed on the deck for a while, drying off on a towel and reading my book before grabbing a Coca-zero from downstairs and eating some olives.
The sun was hot, and I knew at some point I’d have to go under the sunshade, but for the time being, it felt good to be outside, the salt from the water drying on my body. Cédric would come out from the cabin and explain that there was not enough wind to sail, so we would have more time to relax in the bay. Contentedly, I continued to read my silly Paris romance book and sip on my Coke.
This, I thought, is a good life.
