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Twenty thousand tonnes of steel rear and roll amid the surf.
Brutal seas batter the breakwater. Scaling its walls and clambering clear above it.
The outgoing Cote d'Alabatre delays her departure. Steaming slowly out, surrounded by streaming spume and spindrift. Her bow curtseys, as she meets the full force of the waves. Acknowledging their sovereign power.
They suck and seethe in the shingle. Rise high and roar, in unison with the gale. Salt spray fills the air. Wind and water, one.
In the harbour, the freedom loving crew, of Foule Sentimentale, prepares for a wild weekend sail. A Ukrainian flag flying from their backstay. In solidarity with that oppressed, but defiant, nation.
Deep reefed, with storm jib set, they plunge and leap. Facing forty knots of breeze.
White horses caper across tumbling liquid hillsides.
October has set out a stormy stall.
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