White horses, whipped on by storm Francis, stampede ashore in St Malo Bay.
Half a mile to seaward, the Fort du Petit Be stands stalwart against the waves. The sky is a thunderous black. Spray mists the air. The salt tang is on my lips.
Surf shatters to spindrift under the city walls.
Out in the channel, the reefs boil beneath the Grand Jardin light. Waves leaping in high white plumes.
With a throaty roar, the surf rolls in beneath the battlements.
Stargazer's barometer is climbing steadily. The forecasts have the wind easing tomorrow. If we leave at zero seven hundred, we will be able to carry a fair tide all morning.
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