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AFFAIRS OF THE HART – A VERY SPECIAL CANARY

22/09/2015
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AFFAIRS OF THE HART – A VERY SPECIAL CANARY

Harty tells of his love hate, but mostly love, relationship with Fuerteventura.

The front of the virtually brand new jeep lay buried up to its radiator in the river.

“I just told him to keep his foot down” said Dave White strangely confused.

“You told your Essex brother, who inspired the whole concept of ‘boy racer’ to keep his foot down?” I repeated incredulously.

The scene of the crime was the Sotavento speed track in Fuerte, which lies a kilometre from the rigging tent. At the beginning and end of the day you were allowed to drive on the beach to fetch and carry spare rigs. Half way down was a river where the lagoon emptied into the sea. It was just passable in a 4X4. As I’m sure you’re aware dear reader, the way to pass through water in a car is to go slowly and steadily. Above all, do NOT stop or water flows back into the exhaust pipe. That’s sort of what Dave meant – but ‘keep your foot down’ in Essex speak means something altogether more exciting. So it was that Joey wound her up to about 60 and launched into the river like an outtake from the ‘Dukes of Hazard.’

10,000 pesetas later the event tractor dragged us out. After a good hosing we managed to start it but electrics and salt water aren’t great bedfellows and every day from then on something stopped working. Ultimately it was the lights, which flashed on and off at random, which we got away with because everyone including police, assumed it was an emergency vehicle.

Yin and yen
Ah yes – I have such fond memories of Fuerte’, in the same way as a World War 1 veteran has ‘fond memories’ of the Somme. The views are stunning, he made lifelong friends, the action was a bit grim, but he was happy to survive it.

Mention Fuerte’ and a torrent of conflicting images and sensations flood the synapses – I’ve had the best and worst times. It’s not the island’s fault, just interpretation of events.

You only get the chance to make a first impression once and the first trip was a bit grim. November 1982. Rumours on the pre-interweb grapevine were that the Canaries had wind. Four of us smashed piggy banks and headed out for a month. For the first 3 weeks in Lanzarote there wasn’t a breath. We then drove over to Fuerte to enter the first Eurofun Cup. Arriving in Corralejo in the beautiful north, our car was immediately impounded because our insurance didn’t cover both islands (a favourite revenue stream for local police apparently).

With most of our spending money gobbled up in fines, we had a choice of either entering the event or getting a hotel. We entered the event and slept rough – big mistake as the wind never crept anywhere near the 17 knot minimum. Days were idled away staring at the sea (we had no transport) and trying to sneak into a posh hotel’s all-inclusive buffet. It seemed the event organisers had done as much meteorological research as us. Very few places are windy all year – and November in the Canaries is generally one to avoid.

Returning to Heaven
Believing everyone and everything deserves a second chance, the following January I returned with racer Mark Wood and snapper Alex Williams. What a difference. There was still no direct flights to Fuerte so again we came in from Lanzarote – this time the ancient flat bottomed ferry was picking its way between the reefs which were throwing up tubing waves as big as we imagined Hawaii to be (we hadn’t been there yet). This was the real deal. And it was windy every day for a month.

The northern port of Corralejo has since become something of a tourist town but back then it was a classic fisherman’s port with a bar (the Arena) and a pizzeria (Willies) and a lot of long-stay windies keen to bond and share. In that month I was delighted to break every bit of kit I had because I learned SO much in the process. I got totally trashed on the rocks and reefs at the Harbour Wall and the Shooting Gallery (lesson learned, gybe out before you feel the fin hit); and got pounded relentlessly by the Cotillo shorebreak (lesson learned, when the water is yellow and full of sand, best not hang about in it). But then after the beating, we enjoyed one of the best fish meals ever in the village.

The War Years
The summer of 87 really put Fuerte on the map when Pascal Maka smashed the world speed record on the recently discovered Sotavento down in the south of the island. The following year every speedster in the world wanted a bit of the action. The qualification process was brutal. But we made it. Careful what you wish for. That beach was to become my home for 4 weeks every summer for the next 12 years.

The south of Fuerte – it could be a different island. The 10 km beach itself is worth the visit. I asked a hotelier what ‘Sotavento’ meant. The answer he gave depended on whether you were a normal tourist or a windsurfer. ‘’Eeet means, ‘shelter from the wind.’ Oh you weendsurf? It means ‘crazy windy!’’

It is crazy windy. For 3 weeks one July it never dropped below 30 knots. It was like being in the ring with Mike Tyson. You take the first punch but every one after that makes you weaker and weaker until you collapse. By the end it was all we could do to drag ourselves to the rigging tent, let alone sail for 6 hours over-powered with a weight jacket.

The wind – it never stopped even at night. It screeched relentlessly through the Gorriones Hotel sounding like the shower scene from ‘Psycho’ reminding you of the punishment waiting for you the next day.  I’ve just talked to Whitey, my constant travel companion during those years, and asked him of his most abiding memories. “The trips north.” He said without hesitation. At least once a week he’d force us in the Fiat Punto and drive the 90 mins up to Corralejo just so we could get a decent meal in the Mexican restaurant … and get a break from the screeching.

But don’t let me put you off – the seascapes are stunning. If you’re prepared to drive you can get some amazing sailing in and out of waves.

Overall we had more fun than we knew what to do with. .

PH 7th May 2015-05-06

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