Man against the tides.

Wind, wind, more wind. Le Meteo had promised les vents violents and the barometer had delivered. So why were we headed out to sea, or at least to the small island of Noirmoutier on the west coast of France? Because it looked interesting.

There are two ways to get to and from the island: le pont, a high bridge built in the 1970's, and Le Goie, a causeway that is submerged except at low tide. We took the bridge, along with half the camping cars in France, the Netherlands and Germany. The main route winds across the windswept, soggy flat land past ponds where the famous salt of the island settles out from the sea, past beds of farmed oysters, and past fields where new potatoes were being plucked from the black muck.

We checked into a tiny family-run hotel and, after a short rest, set out to defy the wind and explore the island. On all the main roads are signs warning about the dangers of traversing the passage of Le Goie except at the lowest tide, which the helpful signs indicated was about two hours away. We followed the road almost to where it disappeared into the water, then backed up and parked. The course of the road is marked by crude poles on each side and it looked like it would be so,e ti,e before the road dried. Suddenly a tiny red Fiat Punto rushed by, followed by several o ther vehicles, and the entire parade plunged into the water. At first the water was shallow, but then a bow wave started to build up on the Punto. His pace slowed until he stopped, presumably to wait for the tide, and his followers stopped behind him. The wind was so strong it was hard to stand much less use the binoculars, but we could make out a similar parade setting out tentatively from the opposite shore. The Punto edged forward. His opposition, a camping car broke away from his pack but quickly decided on prudence. It had evidently become a duel to see who was brave enough, or fool-hardy enough, to be the first one through the treacherous passage. Apparently waiting for low tide is not an acceptable option in this game. We pulled our windbreaker hoods tight against the wind, watching how the game played out, hypnotized by the feints, the strategic pauses, the tentative advances. Suddenly the red Punto made the winning move, heedless of the depth of the water, the way apprently clear as he rushed across the last gap and onto Le Continent, as the island road signs call it. The camping car had to be content with being the first in his direction and soon the still-submerged causeway was a veritable highway with traffic literally streaming in both directions. Each had pushed his own bow wave through the trecherous waters and emerged victorious.