This morning I go to a bakery I discovered the night before – and indeed: it is open early in the morning and tempts me with a fine selection. I stock up on various delicacies, freshly prepared, and enjoy a hot chocolate – and surprise myself at how calm and relaxed I am about today: Yes, I want to go to Santander. Across the Bay of Biscay.
Now I fill up the tanks, go through the emergency arrangements, and off I go. First through the tidal current of the Garonne out to sea, then through the unfriendly high waves (which reminds me of the day before). I want to see how the sea presents itself outside the coastal area. And sure enough, the wave tops subside; this time the forecasts come true and I ride at a reasonable speed over the smooth, long waves towards Spain. No ‘leaps of joy’, rather uphill and downhill. Little wind. That’s good.
Between Royan and Santander, over 150 km from the nearest shore, in the middle of the Bay of Biscay. The sea does not always look the same – fascinating sun-light-cloud-sea-games amaze me as the ArgoFram carries me south-west.
Towards the end, after about six hours of fast sailing, the starboard engine starts to act stupid again. I stay composed, reduce the power, try to give it enough fuel, and can handle it without having to shut down. – Land comes into view; everything went very well. I am proud. I dared this direct drive, and I got through it with astonishing routine. My journeyman’s piece?
In Santander itself, the marina is again right by the centre. It’s a ‘Club Real’, blue-blooded, very snobbish (the Spanish can do it too, even more precious than the English). But despite empty moorings, they are full, they say, they don’t accept anyone, not even for one night. I am turned off and continue to the even bigger marina ‘for the ordinary’ further upriver, on the outskirts of the city. They have space there, welcome me in a friendly, even obliging manner, and I immediately feel very comfortable.
There I also see a petrol station with a mooring – I head straight for it… although I see a speedboat of the Guardia Civil or the police or the border guard refuelling there. I have an inkling of what’s coming, but hey, I’ve mastered the Bay of Biscay, I’ve endured the brusque dismissal in the ‘Club Real’ with astonishing equanimity, I’m fully with myself – now it’s up to me, now it’s on, now I can show how I make friends out of potentially difficult civil servants!
The two border policemen and the border policewoman promptly put on their official airs: Where I come from, where I want to go, identity check, inspection of the ArgoFram… I show them my papers, but I can’t remember exactly the name of the port where I left (they guess where I might come from, enter a Spanish town in the form and I say that sounds good) and tell them about my travel plans. Dutifully, they draw up the protocol, find a stamp somewhere – and strongly recommend that I always carry this paper with me; in the south of Spain, their authorities are keen on such sleek boats (smuggling flourishes there).
Then I ask them what kind of speedboat they are driving? They start to smile under their masks, remove them and laugh and start to show their other, personal side – and ‘confess’ that they are driving a confiscated smuggling boat, makeshift repainted and provided with their badge… They also have questions about the ArgoFram, because they have never seen anything like it, and are personally interested in my plans. We chat until I want to refuel and they have to move on – and wish me a hearty ‘buen viaje’ as a farewell.
After a shower in the marina, I realise how exhausted I am despite everything. So I don’t go for a stroll through town, but only to the nearby marina restaurant, where I eat small delicacies, fine tapas. That should be enough. (For two euros ninety I get a tea and a piece of fresh potato-cheese-ham ‘tart’, and each additional fine sandwich costs me one forty – what more do I want?!)