The predicted W5-6 never materialised. It never got to be more the F3. Another dead run. Rolling, rolling... Preventer duly rigged, goosewinging did not really work. We just rolled too much. Flying the kite was not an option, keeping your footing on the foredeck was impossible.

Twelve hours to go - horrible. Then, as the tide turned, the wind disappeared. Local forecasts kept announcing W5-6, yet here we were motoring in a Force nothing. Then, it rained. No it didn't rain, buckets were being chucked at us. Visibility dropped to less than two cables - I've been in fog that wasn't as bad as this. To illustrate my point, a fisherman appeared out of nowhere just off our port beam - we could have shaken hands. The last 9 miles took us 3 hours - what idiot had ordered 'springs'? After 3 hours at the helm I was drenched; even though I wore 3 layers of clothing, I was wet through.

Entry into F�camp proved to be 'interesting'. Reeds said: confused seas off the entrance. Shallow entrance. No kidding. If I hadn't been too soaked, too cold and too tired I would have headed 16NM up the coast to St Valery straight away. But I could not hang about for another 4 hours waiting for the lock to open. We started to come in arse end first, the eventually proceeded in sideways. A night time entry into an unfamiliar port; I'm not doing that again in a hurry.

Inside it was even more cramped and crowded than I remember it to have been. Boats (all smaller than Guapa) rafted up five or six deep. The one available hammerhead (of sorts) would have been just right for our dinghy. Luckily Brigitte had spotted the large German boat that had rafted up to us in Cherbourg. Right by the entrance, in a bit of a swell. Beggars can't be choosers. First time approach text book perfect. Crew tied up in a matter of minutes.
Quick hot dinner and off to bed.

Let's not hang about and get out of here as soon as we can. Hope all our foul weather gear's more or less dry tomorrow.

The one day of our holiday I would rather not remember.