Infinity Kite @ Beauduc

Winding side roads take you through the last foothills of the French Alps down into the Rhône Valley. This is the cradle of the Mistral, one of the most powerful wind systems in Europe. First the vineyards tremble. Castles, aqueducts and medieval villages pass by on rollercoasters. Then the poplars sway. The land becomes flatter and flatter. Mountains become hills.

From Arles onwards, the land flows into water for 50 kilometres like nowhere else in the world. The distances between the villages increase between the last rows of trees swaying in the strong wind. Yawning bulls and grazing grey horses on the last solid meadows before the sea. Then, very slowly, the water creeps inland through canals between rushes.

The last 15 kilometres from Salin de Giraud to Beauduc beach are pure magic. Dust from the gravel creeps everywhere into the car and welcomes you back. The potholes shake the board against the window, and behind it flamingos filter the water of the Salinien. The land slowly loses ground to the water. Until the road is finally just a dam between waters.

The last gate before the Beauduc used to stop wide buses, but can now apparently always be bypassed, as the beach is now permanently closed to camping and vehicles. There are now easily 100 wide buses and a few tents in the car park directly behind it.

Beauduc beach is a crescent-shaped bay near the mouth of the Rhône. Over its seven kilometres of fine sand at the end of the world, the mistral has whistled violently sideshore several times in the last 15 years. On our first visit, we sat watching a large storm front approaching from the sea with the brilliant Austrian Kite Brothers in our tent camp on the beach. During the night, the storm tore all the tents apart from ours. The following morning, the wild moulds of the Carmargue came to visit and licked the salt off the remains of our tents.

Camping is definitely no longer allowed. It’s a good thing. In the past, you couldn’t see the beach for all the vehicles. Camping there was really a bit tougher because there was nothing but endlessness: no shade, no toilet, no mobile phone reception, no food and no drink. Even in Salin de Giraud, 15 kilometres of mogul track / 20 – 45 minutes (depending on your confidence in your shock absorbers) away, there was only a small corner shop. Today, the salt workers’ village has awoken from its decades-long hibernation. A supermarket, a few restaurants and finally a campsite welcome me after a long journey.

On the first day, an endless laminar 13-knot side-on wind blows in from the sea. More than 100 kiters conjure up the feeling of a Christmas tree in my stomach. I know that the wind is not enough – but I still have to say “hello” to the Beauduc. In the late afternoon, I run back up the beach several times after a few lines in mild waves.

All the French radio stations have been warning of the coming storm for days. I pitch my tent at the campsite and watch the sun sink golden behind the last salt flats. During the night, the tent wakes me up with a rattling noise. On my second visit a few years ago, an October storm ate my old tent. One is enough. I take down the tent in the middle of the night in increasingly strong winds and sleep in the car.

In the morning, my decision is a good one. Salt flakes fly over the dams between the salt pans. The trees bend. Some ornithologists are leaning against the elemental forces, and even the seabirds seem to prefer to stay on the ground today. All the forecasts have been talking about this storm for ten days. They are right.

The Beauduc is completely empty today. Only after the first hardcore kiter launches his kite himself at a good 37 knots do a few others consider the wind to be potentially non-lethal. Nevertheless, there are never more than 15 kiters out there today in constant 30 to 45 knots. The sand shines on my trembling legs. I need a few fear cigarettes before I dare to set up my 7 kite in 35 knots.

The first hour in waves of up to one and a half metres is a full-body cramp between water freaks who think they are birds. They buzz through the air looping at a height of over ten metres – while I’m just busy trying not to fall off the board after 20 years of kiting. I succeed.

Then my body relaxes and the infinity kite of the Beauduc pulls up like blue magic. I calm down in the middle of the storm. The tinnitus melts in the white noise of the waves. The gusts get smaller and smaller and the wind is now blowing almost laminar at 32 to 42 knots. The full depower no longer offers much safety. But the wind is actually rideable, although some of the kites around me end up shredded in the water.

I start to fly. The wind has the perfect direction for rocket launches, tiling right sideshore over the crests of the waves. I approach one very carefully and slowly. She doesn’t really agree with my plan for a little hop. It goes straight up into the sky, then a gust lifts me up another five metres. After 25 metres downwind, I land. They are all going to hit today, without exception. I fly anyway, again and again.

When the storm picks up to a good 45 knots, it’s time to go ashore. My absolute limit has been reached. I look at my watch and realise with surprise that I must have been riding one of the most violent winds of my life for almost four hours. The grins between the hits and the screams high above the waves were the infinite kite of the Beauduc.

On my 10,000 kilometre kite road trip around the Iberian Peninsula, the Beauduc is my last stop. I couldn’t imagine a better one. I was often disappointed, because 10,000 kilometres is really a lot for just 12 kite days. But if a voice spoke to me from the darkness under the starry sky tonight: “You have to ride 10,000 kilometres to experience a day like this again!”, then I would only have one question: “When are we leaving?”.