by Amber, aka Defi Diva  (and in your best pseudo French accent, say d’FEE dee-VAH!)

As I pulled myself and my gear from the rescue boat and sloshed toward the shore, I looked out at the distant sand dunes through a brown gritty haze. The sand was whipping in finger-like strands along the beach. I had been in a similar wind many years ago at Virginia Beach.

Having at the time just newly acquired the 4.7 Ezzy sail I was now sailing, I didn’t bother looking at the forecast that day.  I just knew it was windy and I wanted to go out and give my new sail a try.  I had been staying at a hotel on the beach that day so rigged in the shadow of the building. As I moved my board and sail toward the water, I could feel the sand scouring the skin at my ankles where my wet suit and booties did not quite connect. “That hurts!” I remember thinking before I dismissed it and plunged into the waves.  Not having ever really surfed waves, my naivety provided me with resolve that I would probably now lack. As the wind that day was a side shore and blowing from the north, I quickly made it out past the break and into the deep waters. At that point my brain engaged and I thought that perhaps it was not wise for me to be out in these conditions. I struggled to turned the board back toward shore spending more time in the water and waves than on them. Having just
also newly acquired water starts, it took several attempts before I was once again up and riding in the direction of land. The “non–windsurfing” colleagues I had been traveling with came to the shore to help me with my gear, as I had been blown down shore quite considerably. That evening they teased me relentlessly during dinner. But after I got home a few days later I checked the wind for that evening, it had been blowing 50 mph.

I was told to wait on the beach and another rescue boat would come and get me.  I de-rigged my sail, pointed the nose of my board toward the oncoming sand and put the luff under the back side of my board in an attempt to keep the sand from building up inside the roll. I placed the boom on my board and the masts with their open ends also down wind, and then sat down to wait. Eventually a few more sailors joined me on the shore. One with a broken mast, another with a broken foot strap, and others that just had rigged too big. As we sat on the shoreline, we could see off in the distance another boat pull up and several other sailors jump out.  Some had gear, and some didn’t… we would find out the next day that seven of them had completely lost their gear.

Despite the sunshine, after a while I was starting to shiver. Following the lead of one of the other sailors, I made my way a couple hundred meters across the beach to the closest sand dunes where I laid down in an attempt to shadow myself from the wind. I tried to imitate a lizard and soak the sun into my black wet suit. It only partially worked, I was still shivering but at least not as much. Eventually I had to roll on my stomach and let my hair blow over my face to cover it as best I could, because despite everything else I was now getting severely sunburned!  As the wind whipped strands of my hair against my sunburned lips I began to ponder lunch and the number of shampoo bottles I was going to need that evening.

A couple hours later the rescue boats finally arrived. We walked back from the sand dunes to retrieve our gear. The boats couldn’t reach us where we had been told to wait so we had to carry everything down the shore line to where they sat waiting. The boards were half buried from the blowing sand, and everything was now several times heavier.  One of the young French sailors who spoke a bit of English, helped me shlep my gear.  If I had been several years younger I might have made other offerings of gratitude, but as it was I just gave him a very thankful “Merci beau coup!”

The ride back on the catamaran took another hour, as we had to stop at several of the off-shore buoys to pick up abandoned gear.  There were about 11 sailors on the boat, and as the crew would pull up to the buoys we would help retrieve, de-rig and stow the gear. Eventually we made it back to the venue site.  We were transferred to another small boat where we were then driven to shore and dropped off. We were instructed to sign in and that our gear would be dropped off for pick up at an alternate location.  It had been almost 3 and half hours since I had crossed that starting line and I was glad to be finally back.  As I stepped on dry land, Geert came rushing over to me and grabbed me up in a big bear hug.  ”We were worried! Here we thought this American comes all the way over to race the Defi, and she gets lost at sea on her first race!”  I laughed and gave him a big hug back! “No!” I said, “I’m still here! Tramontane 1, Diva 0!” And, then I thought to myself…”And I will be back
to see YOU, Tramontane, again tomorrow!”

by Amber, aka Defi Diva

Having never ridden a bull, I can only guess that what I was experiencing out on
the water was very similar. During the Skipper’s meeting they had warned that
the launch area and the waters up to the starting line were “a bit gusty”. I
suppose the term “understatement” would be appropriate. As my board lurched and
stalled, I alternated water starts and uphauls in my attempt to make it to the
starting line. Prior to the race I had visions of what it would be like to see
and experience the thrill of the infamous rabbit start. But those visions had
evaporated as I concentrated on just simply moving my board in the direction of
the starting line. I never saw the speed boat pass, nor the jockeying of the
serious racers to be the first off the mark. Instead, I cursed the fact that I
had rigged too small a sail, and it would not be possible to go back and change
it out. The mantra of “Rig big or go home!” echoed in my head right up to that
first race. But, they had warned that the wind typically blows 5 knots faster
at the first mark, so I thought I had better play it safe this first run out.

About 10 minutes after the race had started and all the sailors where but small
flashing dots on the horizon, I finally managed to crossed the start line. I
suppose the benefits of being the last to cross the starting line is that you
have it all to yourself. You don’t have to worry about crashing into other
sailors or the wind being taken from your sail. It was a quiet almost peaceful
experience. And despite the fact that my start would in no way qualify me for
sport icon of the year, I was elated that I had actually officially started my
very first Defi race!

Defi Wind 2013 Official Video – Day 1

Bart had advised me to follow close to the shore so that I could get clean winds

(no longer a problem) and smoother water, so once past the start I made my way
toward the shore line. The wind was blowing from a solid north west position.
The waters were quite choppy and the combination made moving in that direction a
bit of a challenge. But as I progressed along the first leg, I began to notice
that indeed the winds were picking up. The lulls had subsided and I was now
transitioning between planing and being overpowered.

The race organizers had marked some of the shoreline hazards (a pipeline and
sand bars), with buoys to warn off the sailors. Not knowing exactly where those
were along the course and considering the speeds at which I was now sailing I
began to worry about hitting these obstacles. However, that worry did not last
long. I had a bigger issue coming straight at me. About one third of the way on
my first leg I could see the professional sailors making their return. I
swallowed hard, here was my first real race test, running the gauntlet of some
800 sailors. I was on the starboard tack so technically had right of way, but
lets face it these sailors were the real pros and they were traveling at speeds
that would make the USS Enterprise green with envy. I did my best to keep my
direction constant and predictable so they could move around me. “Don’t flinch.”
I said to myself. “Just relax and ride.” So I did.

As I maneuvered the onslaught of the sailing hordes, I began to notice that the
wind had picked up even more. I now found myself bleeding air off my what I once
thought was a “small” sail and had to calm my oversized board off the waves as
it reared like a frightened horse. I looked out in the distance and finally
caught my first glimpse of the first marker. “Holy crap! I’m almost done with
my first leg!” I thought. And then, the Tramontane let me know that it was not
finished with me yet…

People call it “survival sailing”. I don’t think I would even qualify what I
was doing on that board as sailing at this point. I was moving, I was moving
very fast, and was using every muscle in my body to keep the sail and board
progressing toward that mark. I began to ponder how I was ever going to do this
for three more legs, but then I heard it… The distinctive “shhhhhkunk!”
CRAP!!! My mast foot had slid forward. A cacophony of swear words entered my
head. How could I have not re-checked that before I left, especially since I
knew the sand in my gear was going to be an issue? What an idiot! Knowing that
my chance of tightening it back down in the deep water would be next to
impossible with the waves and wind being what they were, I struggled even harder
now to get to the shallower waters. As I approached and passed the first mark,
I saw another sailor in the water who looked like he was standing. I slowed and
dropped in near him. I could stand, but only just. As the wind and waves tossed
me and my board about, I popped the sail, slung my arm through the boom and
wrenched down the mast foot in the most forward position. With the mast foot
now secured, I tilted the board to reconnect my sail but the wind picked it up
and sent it flying.

I used to swim competitively, garnering even gold and silver medals at a Junior
Olympics during high school. And even now after a “few” years I’m still no
slouch on the water. But my board proved to be a most challenging competitor.
I dug in and raced toward my board, as I inched toward it my shoulder began to
whine. “Shut up and swim, we’ll talk about this later!” I snapped at it. Now
was not the time for consoling conversation with a body part. I finally reached
out and grabbed the foot strap and maneuvered back toward my sail. Once again,
but this time in the deep water, I tilted my board and attempted to reconnect my
mast. And once again the Tramontane, this time with a high pitch shriek, picked
up my board and flung it in somersaults over the waves away from me.

by Amber aka Defi Diva

The next morning Els, Bart and I headed over to the venue in time for the 10am skippers meeting. There was still no wind, but we both nevertheless packed our gear in case there was an off chance it picked up later in the day. The Skipper’s meeting is every bit the show it was depicted on the web.   A big board of the coast was suspended in the middle of the stage and Philippe Bru, the Defi’s main coordinator and host, would give a detailed over view in French of the race.  Even though I only understood about 10 words during his overview, I was still captivated. Perhaps star struck is a better term. “Whoooa!, I’m REALLY here! I’m really at Defi! And there is Philipee Bru!!! Whhhoooaaa! I wonder if I can get my picture taken with him? That would be sooooo coool!”  One of the other coordinators provided somewhat of an English translation, which amounted to the “cliff notes” version of what was being put out in French. Luckily, Bart would also interject on occasion to point out a few details that were missed in the translation.

The race is predominantly 40 Km in length.  A fast boat starts at a marker and draws a wake line in the sea on the way to the starting boat. Between the marker and the boat, sailors are free to start once the speed boat passes. (Starting before the boat passes might result in death…. never the optimum condition for a race.)  The sailors then sail 10 km along the coast to a white marker, jibe the marker, race back to the starting boat, jibe the starting boat, race back to the marker and then return to the finish line. Or as Philipee Bru puts it, “Derriere, Bouee, Derriere, Bouee, Arrivee!” (If only it was that easy…)

They had plenty of life boats staged along the way and all the sailors were always within eye sight of a safety boat or jet ski.  In addition, since the Tramontane is an off shore wind, they had placed a series of buoys about a kilometer off shore which racers were not to go past. But in case of an emergency and they did have trouble that far out, they were to head to and tie off to one of these buoys.  By the end of the meeting I had a fairly decent understanding of the rules, hazards, and logistics of the event.  I of course was eager to get on the water, but as anticipated the scheduled race for the morning was cancelled because of the lack of wind. A second skippers meeting was scheduled for 2pm in case the wind came up… which it didn’t.

I followed Els and Bart along the sidewalk that edged the beach.  The path was crowded with all sorts of people out enjoying the day.  Children on skate boards and leashless dogs scampered around their parents, while surfers maneuvered boards and sails across the path and adjacent boulders to get their gear to and from the sand.  It was all a well coordinated dance that would continue every day of the event. On the opposite side of the sidewalk from the beach was a short wall.  Here spectators would often pause to see what the windsurfers on the other side of it were doing, sometimes stopping for several minutes to watch while a competitor rigged a sail or prepped their board.

Bart and Els stopped at a series of trailers where a motley group of young and …er…not as young men were contemplating the scene. Little did I know it at the time, but it turned out that THIS was the infamous Belgian Slalom Team.  After warm greetings and jovial discussions in Belgian, to which I just nodded and smiled politely, Bart introduced me to his team members; Geert, Xavier, Jurgen, Pieter, Joris, William, Nagui, and Bram. Bart explained to them that I had come all the way from the United States to compete in the Defi, to which their eyes widened and mouths went agape. “You have come all the way here for the Defi?!!!” Geert asked in disbelief. I just sheepishly nodded, not really knowing how to answer.  Perhaps he thought I was some famous sports icon? But more likely he probably thought I was just plain crazy, which wasn’t far from the truth.

As it turned out they were the most affable group of folks one could ever meet. Over the next few days they were the consummate hosts allowing me to join in their camaraderie and intrude in their space. (Jurgen even offered me some room in his trailer to stow some of my gear!) They all spoke excellent English, and even knew our own Belgian BABA member, Chris! A well coordinated lot, they sported fetching light blue “Belgian Slalom Team” jackets (which I confess I lusted over being also the Windsurfing Fashionista I am), and they had taken up prime race real estate for the event. Their cars and trailers were parked in the front row where only the pedestrian walkway separated them from the beach. Their tarps were neatly spread out behind the trailers for easy and clean rigging and derigging. And their trailers and vehicles hosted an impressive amount of gear that put my little Jeep to shame.  Over the next few days they would prove instrumental in not only providing advice for the race
course, ….but also in my survival.

by Amber, aka Defi Diva

In the middle of the night I awoke to a menacing howl. It became apparent that the Tramontane was also awake, and it was now coming down from the ice capped mountains in a thundering roar. My little #43 Bungalow shook as the icy winds banged at the door and windows. I pulled my little blanket closer around me. This was the wind I was expected to windsurf in the next day?! My thoughts raced. Was my little gear small enough? Should I even get on the water? “No….” I thought, “If this is the wind tomorrow, I’ll have to suck it up and not race. The wind is the wind, and one has to know their limits.” (And I had learned mine several times over during the years.)  So I tossed and turned for the rest of the night, shivering in the cold, and desperately hoping to hear signs of the Tramontane’s abatement.

By the next morning, the winds had died down from the previous night’s gales. The forecast for the day was looking good, low 20s (knots) with gusts to mid and upper 20s. The sun was coming out and the breeze appeared steady. I ate two large bowls of French Corn Flakes and drank my instant coffee as I pondered what things I would need to take along for the day.  Across the way at #4 Bungalow, Bart and Els were also stirring and getting ready in anticipation. “Did you hear that wind last night?”, Els asked in a shiver. “Yeah, that was insane!” I replied.  We both looked at each other knowingly, nothing had to be said, that was not a wind to be reckoned with.

The Skipper’s meeting was at 9am. Philipee Bru again went through the course… “Derriere, Bouee, Derriere, Bouee, Arrivee!”, showed where the boats and buoys would be positioned, and re-emphasized the safety points.  After about 30 minutes of explanations (and corresponding English .. interpretations) it was time to start the count down clock. In a Tramontane like roar, Philipee Bru and the crowd counted down… “CINQ! QUATRE! TROIS! DEUX! UN! GOOOOOOO!” Thundering high energy music then filled the air and participants rushed off in all directions to do final preps on their gear. The race would start in exactly 60 minutes.

When you fly with gear, the good thing is that you don’t have to think hard about what gear to rig. The bad thing is, the reason you don’t have to think about your gear is that you don’t really have all that many options.  I rigged my 4.7 Ezzy wave sail (the one I threw in at the last moment before I left for the airport), and my Carve 111 with a weed fin (There had been mention of sand bars along the way during previous year’s web comments, so I had decided to bring mine.)  After some frantic preparation, (from which I learned my lesson and prepped earlier in the other races), I finally tugged on my pink racing shirt and headed toward the water with my gear.

There is a table set up on the beach with the names of each participant.  Every  racer must sign in and out. Failure to do so will result in disqualification. It is for safety. Should someone not return, they immediately call in search and rescue and commence a search.  Having my own experience with the Outer Banks Search and Rescue, I dutifully signed in.  Little did I know that in the next few hours I would soon be meeting their French counterparts.

by Amber, aka Defi Diva

I was back to #43 Bungalow again before noon, and having completed my main objective for the day I decided to rent a bike and take in the French country side in a more leisurely manner.  I ended up riding my bike along the very well established bike paths back toward the city. The paths were for the most part dedicated for bike and pedestrian traffic, making for a very safe and easy ride.  I went back to visit the afore mentioned “city center”, “ruins”, “castle”, “canal”, etc, but this time I took the time to stop and enjoyed them.  My meanderings took me along picturesque flower strewn vineyards into the city where historic buildings edged small narrow streets. I road around the ancient castle that over looked the small town and over to the canal.  I followed the canal again down to the race venue, only simply to enjoy the ride, then turned around and followed water front back through the city. The city water front is lined with restaurants, bars, shops, and apartments.  I dodged
people and their dogs at every turn. It was a beautiful day and everyone was out enjoying it.

On the ride back to #43 Bungalow I found another grocery store and stocked up with a few more essentials before returning home. Camembert cheese for 1.30 euro!!  Ohh! La! La! (Luckily I had thrown in my BABA canvas bag at the last minute, it proved essential for shlepping my cheese and breads as well as  various windsurfing accoutrements.) I finally got back to #43 Bungalow later that evening and sat out on my porch to enjoy the “spoils” from my day’s adventure. The Greek yogurt was to die for. I made a sandwich from the fresh bread, thick in cheese and tomato. (Swoon!)  And then I topped it off with a bowl of French Corn Flakes, only because the whole milk I bought was so delicious it was like having desert.  I went to bed late that night with a full belly and looking forward to breakfast.

The next day Els, Bart and I decided to ride bikes back to the Defi. It was check in day, and we had to pick up our racing shirts. This time when we arrived, it was evident that the event was in full swing. Everywhere people were parking their trailers and vans loaded to the hilt with gear. Tarps were being spread out and sails were being rigged. Bart and I found the check in location, and picked up our race packets.  There were three colored shirts, yellow (men), pink (women), and green (juniors), and I was given a pink shirt with the number 803. Bart said, “You know you can keep it as a souvenir?  But they will keep your 30 euro deposit.”  ”Maybe”, I said. “But only if I actually finish a race.”  After all what’s the point of keeping the “T-shirt” if you had only “Been There”, but not every really completed a full “Done That”?

The wind forecast was looking dismal for the next day.  Apparently the Tramontane was taking a nap. However, we were warned that it would soon be waking up, and would be grumpy when it did.  We again took to our bikes.  Els and Bart opted for the full ride around the lake on the way back, but I was already cooked from too much sun so headed directly back to hide on my nice cool shady porch.  Just as I got home however, the clouds rolled in and a quiet, windless, spring rain began to fall.  It rained for the rest of the day creating a deep lake like puddle in front of #43 Bungalow. I dodged the lake by walking through my neighbor’s “yards” and I took a walk in the rain down to the beach. It was empty and quiet.

After a while, I decided to head back as I had things to do. The night I arrived I had randomly piled all my gear inside the small hut and now  I needed to make sure I had everything prepared for the “potential, but not likely” race tomorrow.

by Amber, aka Defi Diva

I woke up the next morning in my #43 Bungalow to bright sunshine streaming through my open window, and a mosquito buzzing in my ear.  I covered  my head with the blanket in hopes that he (or I guess “she”) would go away.  It was 8 am. I had slept the clock around and still wasn’t sure I wanted to get up. The mosquito’s insistence in finding available skin for breakfast however soon convinced me otherwise.  In fact, I was hungry and ready to have my own breakfast. The night before I stopped at the little store just out side the camp and bought a huge box of French Corn Flakes that would put Costco to shame (apparently the French like their Corn Flakes), some milk, and a few other tidbits.  I fixed my breakfast and settled down out on the little porch to ponder my day ahead.

It was promising to be a picture perfect French spring day, bright sunshine, perfect temperature, and …. no wind.  I had given myself an extra day in my itinerary up front to explore the area and hopefully find where exactly this race of some 800 windsurfers could be found.  I also thought it might be good to give the waters a test ride, however with absolutely zero wind and none forecasted for the next day or two testing the waters was “right out”. I wasn’t exactly keen on driving the Thingy any more than I had to as it was unwieldy to maneuver in small spaces and everything around me seemed small. (Where is a Walmart parking lot when you need one?!! ) But the problem was that I had no idea where anything was or in what direction I should travel to find the site.

The camp ground was quiet, but I did notice a couple of cars with windsurfing gear in or on them. Surely someone here was also going to Defi. I decided to wait patiently on my porch until I saw someone of potential, then I would pounce.  In the mean time I made a cup of instant coffee and broke out my “French For Travelers” book. After a good half hour I had worked out what I had hoped was a passible translation for  ”Excuse me, but can you please tell me where the Defi registration is?”

The answer came in the form of Bart and Els (sounds a bit like “Elise”), a Belgian couple that were conveniently located in #4 Bungalow across the street.  They had thankfully cut my poor attempt at French short when they immediately began speaking English. (SCORE!!!!) It turns out Bart is an “old pro” at this event being that he had raced in the 2011 race. (I figure completing the Defi, if only once, qualifies you for “old pro” status.)  He pulled out a bike map of the area and showed me approximately where the race venue was staged.  When I asked him about driving there, he mentioned something about “city center”, “lake”, “castle”, “ruins”, and a “canal”, my brain turned off during his explanation of the second roundabout. He then pointed south. I took my cue from that, and jumped in the Thingy.   I did manage to find all the land marks he mentioned but perhaps not in the order he described, and in some cases I found them more than once.

The venue is actually situated at the intersection of the canal and the beach at the end of “Av. de la Jetee”.  Once there, I took the opportunity to park and walk around. They were still setting up. Registration and opening ceremonies wouldn’t start until the next day, and the place was a buzz with workers and construction crew. I poked around to see if there were any windsurfing shops in the area. Surprisingly I only found one small shop.  The L’oc Surf shop which is located on the south side of the beach next to an open air restaurant and bar. The shop has a selection of boards, masts, booms, clothing, etc, however it is not extensive. But it was enough!  In a pinch if something were to break I would at least have options for getting it quickly replaced.  I returned to my car, marked the place on the Thingy’s GPS, and made my way back  to #43 Bungalow.  This time in only a slightly less confusing manner.

by Amber, aka Defi Diva

Luckily the military had trained me well when during my first deployment to Iraq I was unceremoniously dumped on the tarmac in Kuwait with 6 military bags and a weapons case.

“Ma’am, you’ll need to check in at the terminal headquarters about a quarter mile down the road.”
“What about my gear?”
“…Yes Ma’am, you’ll need to check that in as well…”

So my quarter mile turned into about 3 by the time I arduously leapfrogged my bags to the terminal.  I think they call these relived war stories “flashbacks”.  And I indeed was having them at the Toulouse Airport.

After having sorted out my car rental and offering my house, 401K, and all my gold jewelry up for collateral to Hertz, I had found my luggage and began pondering the movement of it.  The luggage came into the main conveyor system and was easy enough to throw on one of those luggage carts they have at the airport.  The next stop took me to the oversized luggage conveyor and when I finally found it I was elated to see my three wonderful bags sitting there waiting for me.  They made it!!!! The relief washed over me.  It was like I found my long lost dog. I wanted to rush up and give them all great big hugs. But in respect for public decorum, I refrained and offered them a little pat and smile instead.

Having found all my bags, I was now faced with a new and daunting realization.  The oversized conveyer happened to be in a secure room behind a series of one way sliding doors that were curiously protected by bollards.  The whole security design had me puzzled. Were they trying to keep people in or out? And why did they feel the need to limit the size of the exit area in the place where oversized luggage was delivered? When faced with these seemingly illogical, sleep deprived moments, I’ve found that just sucking it up and moving forward is usually your only option. So there I went… First the 135 laid horizontally across the luggage cart, then the 111 on top of it, followed by the sail bag.  I looked like a mock up of the Wright Brothers bi-plane. Everyone stopped to stare, so this is what it is like to be a famous sporting icon?! Perhaps I should have offered autographs?

I pushed the cart to each obstacle, then I would stop off load the sail bag, off load the 111,  off load the 135, carry them through the obstacle to the next open area one by one, push the cart through, load up the 135, load up the 111, load up the sail bag, move to the next obstacle…. and so it went. When I finally made it to the parking garage that housed my rental car, I was soaked in sweat and my shoulder was throbbing.  There I was in my bad hair, baggy eyes, and rumpled clothes, when the perky Hertz attendant in her well tailored French suit came whisking  out from behind her desk. “Oh! You must be tired! Are those surf boards? Really do you surf?!! Oh let me go get the car for you!” And off she went, perking the whole way while I slumped to a crumped, gooey mess.

The black Mercedes “Thingy” soon came screeching through the garage and pulled up next to my bi-plane. The attendant folded down all the seats and helped slide my gear in on top of them as they didn’t fold flat into the floor. I slid in behind the wheel, and it immediately felt like I was at home. The windsurfing gear was up to my ears and I couldn’t see out any of the back windows, just like my very own Jeep.  I was in my element at last.

I don’t know how I made the 160km drive. I don’t remember it very much. Hopefully I was awake for most of it.  I remember at one point trying to sing along with a French radio station in a desperate attempt to stay coherent. The navigation system lady was the only one who would talk to me and her conversation skills were a bit limited, but at least she spoke english.  I did finally make it though. I even found my “Camp Ground”.  I had to wait a couple of hours for registration to open though. They had apparently strict rules on check in times. It was between 5 and 7pm…no exceptions. (And no, they don’t accept Master Card!)

So I found a nearby, shady picnic table and put my head down. I just was going to “rest my eyes”… I don’t know if it was the French couple that sat down at the table to eat their ice cream or the fact that I was drowning in my drool that woke me from my nap, but either way I was glad I did.  Registration was open and in full swing!  I walked into the reception area, and there sat the attendant, a portly man who proudly spoke no english. Great…  I had forgotten to print my booking, but had luckily saved it on my iPad. He wasn’t impressed, he wanted it on paper. Finally, when I pointed to the reservation with my name against it he relented and copied the booking number from my iPad onto the reservation.  He gave me my key, my gate code, and offered some other advice to which I just smiled and nodded.  I maneuvered the Thingy through the gate, down a small road lined neatly with little tiny houses to my #43 “bungalow”. To my relief, there were no abandoned heroin needles or seedy looking sofas sitting on the front porch. It was in fact a very nice well kept hut with a small kitchen, bath, and most importantly, a bed. I had made it!  I was in Gruissan, home of the Defi!