Kite surfers shred, off the beach.
Streaking across the bay at scintillating speed.
Scything through wave strewn waters.
Powered by their crescents of colour.
Whilst wing sailors soar above the tumult. Borne by their foils.
Throughout a sun drenched, spray soaked day of whistling wind.
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When only the hardiest of cruisers put to sea.
Pen Duick V arrives in port, crewed by two officers of the French navy. Down from the Le Fret nuclear submarine base. Drawn, no doubt, by tomorrow's forecast. Which hints at a lull in the breeze. Perhaps enough for a passage, through the Raz de Seine, to be possible.
(More here on the legend of Eric Tabarly and his Pen Duick's. Pen Duick V in particular).
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