by Denise and Robert Davey and Blue, on board Barolo
We are all familiar with geographical features along our coastline being dubbed 'Bastard Rock' and 'The Manacles', by reason of their fearsome nature. We now have our own name for starboard buoy 9 N off Cap Ferret on entry to the Bassin d’Arcachon.
In 2008 we had intended to go into Arcachon on our way down the French coast but were foiled. The entrance is notoriously changing amongst sand banks and dunes but the one feature that is a constant is the bar across the channel. That year we were approaching the entrance in strong winds with a 3m swell racing straight in, and, deciding it was suicidal, carried on another 70 miles to L’Anglet (much to the disgust of the dog).
This year we thought we’d have another go. Despite its wicked reputation, the Bassin can be delightful, full of interesting anchorages and is the only stop-off point in a 150-mile passage. We got up early from Royan thinking that at half tide we would probably have enough water and headed down as fast as possible.
We arrived in good time and thought we’d call up the 'semaphore' or signal station to make sure it was safe to enter before going any further. The office is in Cap Ferret, about 5 miles from the safe water buoy, with a good view of shipping and conditions on the bar. Sadly, we were told in no uncertain terms not to enter before High Water, or “perhaps and hour beforehand”. So, we ground to a halt, with only 5 miles to cover in 3 hours. We sailed under bare poles, hove to for a while, twiddled our thumbs and generally seethed with impatience. The forecast was not good and we were anxious to be tucked up inside asap. There was only about 1m swell, as yet, but we could feel it building in the rising wind.
It was then that we spotted the fishing boat heading into the channel. We still had another hour to wait if we were going to 'do it right', but 'If he can do it, so can we' ruled the day. With a joint sharp intake of breath, we stopped diddling around, got the boat under way and plunged after the fishing boat. Eyes glued to the echo sounder we got more and more twitchy as the depth dropped from 20m to 6m, still racing in with a following sea. To right and left the sand was boiling with the waves breaking over the banks. The channel was clear and the fishing boat was still rolling in ahead of us. We cleared all the buoys in the entrance channel and followed its course past a dogleg of a dune rising out of the water, topped by a small building which turned out to be a museum!
We’d got in. We followed the channel inside the sandbanks and were feeling pretty pleased with ourselves. That was a doddle, we said and I took off my waterproof trousers. Big mistake. By now we had worked our way back in a huge horseshoe to almost the landward side of the semaphore office. Here there was a tiny passage through to the sea that was only for the bold, initiated and loony. The seas were funnelling through it, building in the shallows and getting rather nasty. Just as we were coming up to buoy 9N, one particular wave had our number on it. It rose up almost as high as our crosstrees and whacked us head on. The cockpit filled with water as a ton of ocean fell in our laps. The boat staggered and rode through the mass of water, leaving us to lick our wounds. The dog (who, incidentally, steps around puddles out of choice) looked up dripping and reproachful as if I had deliberately subjected him to a power shower. I could almost hear the man in the semaphore office saying "I told you so”. I was soaked to the skin and by the time we reached the marina, shivering, but the skipper had got off scot-free. I tell a lie. He had wet shoes.
P.S. The next day, we discovered that the force of the wave had broken several strands from one of our shrouds and we had to have it replaced before continuing to Spain.
