National Geographic : 1967 Jun
"To renew my youth, I spend six weeks in St. Tropez every summer," an Italian count told the author. At this Riviera fishing village turned chic resort, action is assured: fast, frenetic, exhausting. Day after balmy day, night after starry night, the roar of sports cars and the beat of rock-and-roll bands fill the air. Beauty on a bike stops, glances back, smiles, and epitomizes a galaxy of pretty girls-film stars, chorines, princesses, and queens-who come here to see and be seen. A young beachcomber, short on cash but long on imagination, cruises the waterfront in his special land yacht, fitted out with toy duck figurehead, snow skis for rudder, and even a name-French for "quack-quack." Jockeying for a racing start, two-man sloops in the Golfe de Frfjus spread their sails to warm southerlies that blow all the way from Africa. Anchored com mittee boat, flags fluttering from its mast and stern, marks the starting line.