The Perfect Wave

A day at the sea is always exciting.
Whether it's setting up the defense line against bloodthirsty mosquitoes, discovering whole shipwrecks complete with a circular saw just before the mouth of the Rhône, or the sweat-inducing expulsion of stubborn sand from the household crevices. There are always small adventures to be had.

Today we learn that the canton of Bern has ushered in the autumn holidays. The Schweizer-Kelly family arrives in their brightly painted VW bus, and the four half-pints can initially scream, squeal, and cheer while racing across the beach in the little camper, as long as they can reach the gas pedal with their feet. We are amazed that they don't get the Bully stuck in the sand, skillfully avoiding the soft spots by a hair. Respect!

Then Papa Schweizer-Kelly takes the helm again.
I lose the bet that the bus with the luggage rack on the roof wouldn't fit through the two-meter gate.
Apparently, clever-rebellious French people have already undermined the sand of the passage by a few centimeters. I estimate that next year we'll be able to get through with the caravan as well.

Several hours of beach fun later, the cheerful family returns from the depths of Plage Napoléon. The four kids have made themselves comfortable on the roof of the vehicle.
The little gate is approaching. Papa stops.
The onlookers are amazed and wonder what the procedure will be. Will the young people jump off the roof? Will they climb over the bus to get past the obstacle? Will they signal that the path is clear?
Nothing happens, the two girls and two boys sit on top and let Papa be a hero.

Then he just drives off. And bang-crash-rumble, all four tumble off the roof!
Ouch! The entire beach community holds its breath in shock. Then everyone runs over, first-aid kits under their arms, fearing the worst. What if a bunch of bones are broken? What if liters of blood are flowing everywhere? What if just one of the kids got pinned under the car or the roof rack, with limbs scattered like forgotten beach detritus?
With devastating images in mind, Zappa also rummages for our green first aid kit from the Kangoo.

But just before we, trained first aiders, reach the scene, all six Schweizer-Kellys are back in their colorful bus. We can likely rule out serious injuries, but the mood is definitely no longer as cheerful, and their heads are hanging low, but at least they are still attached.
Today I guess everyone will go to bed early...

In the afternoon of this sunny day, the wind picks up. The kiters arrive, and by evening they perform impressive meter-high jumps over waves that are now quite reasonable by Mediterranean standards.
The breeze blows increasingly stronger and shakes our Mistral.

The weather apps report 30 km/h, gusting to 60 km/h. Then we are in sustained gusts, as the caravan door can now only be opened with great effort and the entire weight of our bodies. The mosquitoes have finally been driven away.

For dinner we sit in the cozy caravan, relieved not to have to eat our meal in front of the thieves' cave under a wildly flapping tarp in the storm. How protected, cozy, and comfortable we are in our wonderful Elddis!

Outside, the southeast wind howls like a wild beast, the waves are rising ever higher, the Mediterranean roars and bellows as if it were the North Atlantic. We don't care, we're warm and safe in the Mistral, and gradually we're feeling the weight of sleep.

After setting up the sleeping area with three quick moves, we listen for a moment to the noise around us.
Zappa is now wondering aloud when the tide will come in and how strong the wind would still get tonight.
Once more I check the weather app, high tide is only at 4:00 AM, gusts should pick up to 80 km/h.
The tidal range here is a ridiculous 30 cm, but we have already seen how caravans have to be dragged from completely flooded Plage Pièmanson by tractors out of the sand and knee-deep water.

Concerns are spreading.
Oh no - oh no - oh no! I lament: what if the sea floods us in the night while we are sound asleep, the storm ends up blowing our mobile home away, we are left all alone in the water masses, and in the end, we perish in misery because no one will ever reach us again? Oh no - oh no - oh no!

We need not starve, Zappa tries to calm me down, because we have pasta, rice, and couscous for months on board.
I certainly can't sleep now.

Reason prevails. In the dark of night, we return to the beach entrance in the light of the brightly burning gas flares from the refinery 10 kilometers away and now observe how the first waves are lapping at the shore.

In the morning, the 2.5 km beach path is almost completely blocked.
Almost. Our spot from last night is still dry, but the way there is knee-deep in flood and unreachable.
Sometimes it is indeed good that I can complain a little...