National Geographic : 1955 Apr
obstacle, the customs officers of Cannes. Blithely Calypso's protocol expert, D. P. Cous teau, came aboard from his son's vessel to usher us through the morning's formalities. "All these," he declared, waving at our heaped-up luggage, "are scientific instru ments." Politely skeptical, the customs men opened a box. It contained, unfortunately, six jars of peanut butter. Prying open a second crate, the officials discovered a cache of paper hats I had picked up for Calypso's occasional par ties. Then they examined my sonic trans mitter, which looked and ticked like a time bomb, and the heavy cylindrical objects that I called cameras, but which looked like no cameras they had ever seen. That was enough. It took Cousteau senior another six hours of steady debate to extricate us and our belongings.