I checked the time on my cellphone — I had forgotten to turn it off to save power. 2.52 am. I stayed on my back for a few moments, looking and listening around me. Ladina did not seem to be disturbed by any of it: she was fast asleep — and for the better, since not only had we woken up at 4.30 the previous morning to see the sunrise from the top of a dune, but she also would have to drive for the whole following day. My driving license was still stuck in a cargo plane somewhere between France and Hong Kong.

A gale, more powerful than the others, violently shook the tent. I thought I heard a line ripping outside. I really had to go out.

 

For the second time, I silently (no difficult task thanks to the howling winds outside) went out of my sleeping bag, put a pair of pants and a T-shirt on, grabbed my headlamp and made towards the “door”. I made a small opening in the zip line and took a look. One of the flaps of the front side had unhooked itself from its anchor and was pushed flat against the door by the force of the wind, causing the whole front pole to shake wildly.

Wait. I probably have pictures of my tent somewhere. It will be simpler to understand.

It is a four-season, two-person expedition tent, with an aerodynamic tubular shape, silicon-waterproof double canopy, and everything inside from the lines to the poles made in the most lightweight and solid synthetic materials — in short, designed to resist to extreme conditions. Or, at least, supposed to.

I have seen a few things in this tent. A pool of rain next to my head after a stormy night. Rats eating a hole to access my food. Snow and sub-zero temperatures. And it had never, ever failed me. Until this night.

I opened the zip wider and half-jumped, half-squatted outside, leaving the door closed at the bottom, lest the sand carried by the gusts of wind enter the tent. I crawled under the front flap and reached the darkness of the outside.

The wind was tremendous. I almost thought it was a sandstorm, but quickly laughed at my own silliness. A sandstorm would be way worse. In a sandstorm, we would be locked in our car, praying we would get out of there alive.

Shielding my eyes from the sand stinging every part of my body, I observed the behavior of the tent under the gales. Though loosened, the lines were still holding, fortunately; but the front of the tent, directly facing the sheer pressure of the wind, was in bad shape. The anchor was still dug into the sand, another miracle. I hooked the flap back in place, tightened the lines again, and tried to understand.

The first time I had been out, I had used a rock to push in all the anchors deeper into the ground, ensuring they would hold the whole night through — I could not do more than that anyway. I had not stretched the front flaps as much as the rest, though, leaving them room so that the tension due to the wind would not be too much to bear. I had thought it would distribute the effort more evenly, letting everything that held the front pole take a share of the task.

I could see my mistake now. The wind having gained in force, the flaps had started to behave like kites, or sails for those having a preference for boats. Leaving them loose had actually ruined the whole aerodynamic shape of the tent by creating a weakness, where the air could push instead of being deflected. Eventually, a sudden change of direction would simply lift the flap from its anchor, further worsening the resistance of the tent.

The solution was simple. Against my intuition, I stretched the flaps to the maximum under the wind, and anchored them once again, as deep as I could, with my rock. I stood up and smiled.

It was working. The shaking had visibly decreased, every anchor point and line of the tent now seeming to work in harmony with the others instead of leaving the front take the beating alone.

I went back inside, covered with sand and dust. Ladina was still asleep.

 

The storm had already been raging for seven hours, and was still there to greet us when we woke up.