On the heights of Arcachon, in the Ville-d'Hiver district, the sumptuous 19th century villas are asleep.
Closed shutters, overlooking the Bay of Biscay, they are nevertheless the privileged witnesses of a spectacle dating back more than a century.
That of these trawlers and gillnetters who pitch to the rhythm of the terrible swells at the start of the year.
In the distance, these boats are like toys, lost in the Atlantic Ocean.
Below, in the port of the Aiguillon district, a few boats are returning from their outing at sea. On the only quay, two cranes are working to unload the boxes stored in the holds.
The fishing was good, they say.
A cart rushes to the warehouse, loaded with hake, bass and sole.
Tons of fish are thrown onto the chrome stalls of the auction.
Some sailors
"grill"
one, others joke.
"So, not too tired, Ousmane?"
, asks William, the captain of the boat
Le Cynos.
The Senegalese sketches a smile, the boots...
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