The Bay of Biscay has a reputation all of its own. That reputation comes from those sailors who have been teased across its waters by the lure of warmer weather south, but then are caught out by its unique combination of bad weather and big seas. Halfway across the 350 mile stretch is a dramatic rise in depth from 4,000m to under 200m. This creates an upswell in current that causes large waves, although the same upswell also brings an increase in marine life, often marked by the presence of dolphins. 

This has been “Knotty Girls” third crossing of the Bay of Biscay. It has not been a fast one. A large low pressure system to the North has provided us with strong breezes from the SW, meaning two days of beating. This has manifested itself in some rather green faces from one or two of our crew, and some hilarious consequences in the transition from being in bed to being on watch. 

Let me set the scene for you:

It is 2:45am. You’re in your sleeping bag, pretending to sleep. The reason for the lack of actual sleep is that for the 50% of the time, you are airborne about 6 inches above your bunk, This is courtesy of the unique way in which “Knotty Girl” transits from one giant wave to another. Mercifully, your alarm goes off, indicating that it is time to get dressed and head out on deck. 

This is easier said than done, as you prove when you first attempt to stand up. Having been thrown firmly back on to your bunk again, you decide to wriggle in to all your kit from the prone position, thrashing about like a traumatised caterpillar. Now back on your feet, you turn round to grab your lifejacket and accidentally flick the light on with your bum. The bright white light temporarily blinds you, but you just about catch a glimpse of the fact that you have both legs in one half of your trousers and your jacket is on back to front. Now badly dressed and partially sighted, you present yourself on deck and enquire as to the chances of a cup of tea. Once all the laughing has subsided, you venture towards more nautical questions along the lines of the latest weather forecast, distance to the next waypoint, and the chances of a cup of tea. 

As I write, we have about 90 miles to run to Cape Finisterre, the most northerly tip of Spain. With it will come a turn to the south, an easing of the breeze, and the promise of returning to a bunk that is in the same place as I left it. Fingers crossed.

Alastair

(And a special “Hello” to Tanyas mum!)