AUTUMN
The Atlantic coast was always going to be difficult. With a majority of days simply unsailable due to large swells, my plan had been to cherry pick calmer conditions, to cheat my way south to the calmer seas of the Mediterranean.
Frequent headwinds, but very few lost days, had allowed for excellent progress until south of Brittany. All the while – behind me now – the North Sea was getting a battering. I’d slipped into France at the right time. By a mixture of good luck and judgement, and aided by rock solid support from the French windsurfing community – including a thorough repair session at La Rochelle – I eased onto the Aquitaine coast headed towards Spain. Parts of this long, straight, and mostly uninterrupted 250km coastline were known to me from summer surfing holidays past. Etched into my memory are images of the pro events – Slater and friends dropping into close-out barrels yards from the beach, and my own experiences of struggling even to get out of the water on the smaller days I ventured in. A raceboard here in the impact zone, starved of wind to reach shore, is on borrowed time…
And whilst the beaches are hazardous, neither are rivers and basins an easy ticket in and out. Enormous sand banks channel their waters far out to sea. At the entrance to the Gironde, a detour 13km seaward was required to find a route in. The further out I sailed, the bigger and louder the waves unloaded on the bank. Big, long period swells – moving ghost like and with great speed – ready to rear up and catch out who ventures into shallow water.
At Arcachon, with darkness approaching, I take a gamble by heading for a channel between point and bank. Current flows out the gap. A medium sized set arrives. Swells lump up all around. One picks me up, takes me part way in. Where the channel constricts it runs stronger, there’s no way to beat it, but retreat would be disastrous. I pump furiously just to hold position. A bigger set breaks behind – where I’d been a few moments previous. The whitewater rolls in, reforms into a wave again before reaching me, picks me up, and breaks a second time. Against the odds I stay upright, and moments later we crash through tumultuous waters until grounding on the sand spit. It would take two more days to get properly round the corner and into Arcachon basin. Multiple sail breakages – all patched, a missile range, fog, cold nights, warm hospitality, and a final run of 95 kms rounded off the Aquitaine coast stages. Phew!