Espana 19

 

An accordion and guitar troupe strikes up in the street. Playing fast paced jigs and reels. Pausing, wherever there is space enough, to allow their folk choir to circle around and support them with song.

'Kantu Jira,' the choir's bandannas read : 'Sing Around,' in the Basque.

For today it is Saint James Day. A public holiday.

An occasion for festivities. . . . .

. . . . . .in the streets of Pasaia.

The band is cheerfully lead by its effervescing conductor.

As they march and play, smiles spread. Feet tap and bodies sway.

The tail of followers steadily builds. As the ensemble leads us toward the plaza.

Where the heads, of families taking a pre-lunch aperitif, turn at their tables.

And the revelry begins in earnest.

With full hearted song reverberating from the ancient walls.

Espana 18

This is racing for real. Two kilometres, flat out, around a red flagged buoy and back.

 The harbour has taken on aspects of a gladiatorial arena. Hoarse chants, from the coxwains, mingle with raucous cheers, from the partisan crowds lining the quays. The resultant crescendo, of shouts, echoing from the cliffs.

The boats are not twelve oared pilot gigs (contrary my assertion in the Zumaia post). Nor, as I had begun to wonder, on visiting Pasaia's Whale Boat Museum, are they derivatives of the harpoon and chase boats, of that grisly trade. (Pasaia was, in its day, amongst the largest of the European whaling ports. Its fleet hunting in the summer waters off Newfoundland).

No : These are forty foot, thirteen oared, Trainera. Native to the northern coast of Spain. Descendents of sardine and anchovy fishing boats ; which required speed both to keep up with the shoals, and to reach market first, with their catch. Then they were built of cedar. Now Trainera are built in kevlar and carbon fibre. To be raced. 

The 'handbrake turn' practice, which I had observed,  is now explained. The manoeuvre is used to gain the inside line, at the mark, if rounding neck and neck with another Trainera. 

Today's course is laid beside the cargo ships on the wharves. In from the Gulf of Mexico, across the Atlantic, southern Spain and the northern European industrial ports: IJmuiden, Antwerp and Rotterdam.

At the ria entrance, which had felt narrow bringing Stargazer in, the car transporter, Auto Advance, is bound for the port. Escorted by a pair of tugs. Ready, roped up bow and stern, to apply subtle course correction.

They follow the leading line. Tight to the starboard buoy (green can, to left of tug). Giving the breakwater a wide berth. A Trainera rests on its oars, coach RIB alongside, as she passes.

Canoeists too wait, in the shallows. Clear of the entrance.

Until the ship is past. The lead tug tweaking her head gently to starboard, to help her make the dogleg turn, for the run in between the towering cliffs.

 

Espana 17

 

Music, convivial conversation and a laconic revelry spills onto the pavements. Refreshments are served through windows, which have been converted into bars.

In the narrow streets traders hawk their wares. This one offering Cheeses, on a 'try before you buy' basis. Others bread and sweetmeats.

A busker strums her mandolin, perched solitary on a wall, beside the ferry steps.

Pasaia is an unreconstructed seaport town. Cargo ships constantly loading and unloading on its quays.

Its waterfront only lightly gentrified.

Pleasure craft tolerated, but not pandered to.

Ships are the lifeblood of the town. Coming and going with a surprising frequency, given the narrow (if very deep) entrance to the ria and the close confines within.

Pasaia is also the most overtly Basque town, which Stargazer has so far visited. The default greeting here is the Basque "Kaixo," not the Spanish "Hola."

Murals, in support of the full independence of Euskal Herria (The Basque Country). adorn the stonework of the streets.

In the plaza there is bonhomie, drinking and dance. . . . .

. . . . .Before buildings hung about with banners, which protest (in the Basque tongue) the rights of Basque 'prisoners and fugitives.'

Espana 16

 

The swell rolls in, tall and strong, to San Sebastian's famous bay. Cloud streaming, like the smoke of a volcanic eruption, from its mountain peaks.

The choice of forecasts, on offer this morning, was twelve knots of fair wind today (with rain) or next to no wind over the weekend (with sunshine).

Stargazer opts for the former. It is something of a novelty to be sailing with waterproofs close to hand, as the showers pass through. 

We entertain ourselves by catching and passing a forty five foot ketch, off San Sebastian. 

Stargazer is bound for a cleft in the cliffs, better protected than San Sebastian's open roadstead.

Pasaia, in the Basque language . Pasai Donibane, in the Spanish . This port was recommended to me, in reverential tones, by the skipper of a gaff rigged langoustier met on the Gironde (by way of returning a favour). He called it Pasajes.

Steve Pickard, author of The South Biscay Pilot, rates it as having "the most impressive of any entrance to a harbour on the coast ." 

It is truly magnificent. Even on a grey day. With swell surfing and slewing Stargazer, as I search for the marks, which will lead us in.

The gloom helps, by rendering the leading lights, up on the cliffside, clearly visible. Which would not be the case in bright sunlight.

 I bring the three into line. The bottom (a sector light) is showing red. Stargazer is too far to port. We ease over to starboard, very close, it seems to me, to the starboard buoy. Stargazer sails safely in, beneath a column of three white lights.

 Within the encircling crab's-claw of cliffs the water, at a stroke, turns glassy calm. The crash and bang of the boom ; The slatting, as the genoa fills and empties with each roll ; replaced by silence, save for the gentle lap of Stargazer’s wake.

To either hand multi-hued cliffs, clad in verdant green, rise sheer. Two hamlets cling to their sides. One on either shore. A silver ribbon of sea threads its way, through the centre, of this deep shadowed ravine. At its end the orange glint, of terracotta roof tops, can be seen. 

Espana 15

 

The gigs can be heard before they are seen. The rhythmic thump of oar on thole pin. Beating time to the hoarse chant of the coxwain. Up. . . . .

. . . . . .and down, the gigs fly. Hard at practice, each evening.

Zumaia's canalised approach channel affords crews the luxury of flat water. But, undeterred, fellow teams will be at exercise, out in the Biscay swell, off Castro Urdiales, Bilbao and beyond.

These are not the elm planked, clinker built, six oar Scillonian Pilot Gigs raced in the UK.

These are twelve oar power houses, requiring a fast RIB (rigid hulled inflatable boat) for the coach to keep up. Hulls smooth skinned, with plenty of flare.

Breathtaking though their standing start acceleration is, to behold, the coach is a hard man to please. Throwing his arms wide, in a universal gesture of disbelief, at the latest performance.

The crew take it all in good heart. And turn for another speed run. The coxwain swinging all her weight against the mighty steering sweep. The crew keeping the power flowing.

The party piece, of these boats, is an aquatic handbrake turn: The bow oar stops rowing and holds a short sweep over the side (here, with blue and white blade, lying ready on the stem).  The rest of the crew keep pulling. The steering oar is put over. Spinning the gig upon its axis. At close to full speed.

Zumaia was first a shipyard town. . . . . .

. . . . . .before the coming of the watersports centre. . . . .

. . . . .and surrounding leisure development.

Today the yard is refitting two windfarm support vessels, which dwarf  the church and waterfront apartments. 

The enthusiasm for gig racing, both here and all along this coast, born of that seafaring heritage.