They dash from dunes to a boat bound for Britain
‘The officers simply walk over and slash holes in the rubber so it cannot be reinflated’
Hidden in miles of undulating, forest-covered sand dunes on the French coast, hundreds of people lie patiently waiting. Unaware, dog walkers stroll along the seafront while police officers search aimlessly for signs of life.
The hiding figures are hopeful migrants desperate to cross the Channel. Two days earlier they were holed up in tents further inland, awaiting their chance.
When they embarked on their journey, from one of the largest semi-permanent migrant camps, in the Dunkirk suburb of Grand-synthe, the weather had been calm and mild.
Based around a muddy disused railway line, the tents are made of blue tarpaulins, home to mostly young men, tucking into baguettes and crisps enjoying the afternoon sun.
They watch as a group of people begin moving through the centre of the camp.
Wearing large jackets and hooded jumpers, they carry small rucksacks and shopping bags stuffed to the brim.
As they walk, the group of 40 waves to others around the camp who shout encouragement and take pictures excitedly. “They are going to London”, one young man from Afghanistan says, as the group marches away from the campsite and across a river.
Leaving the muddy tracks of the camp behind, the group board a public bus to Gravelines, a coastal village, the beaches of which are used by people smugglers.
They disembark in the quiet town and walk confidently through the streets as locals watch on from balconies with impassive faces.
The group is led by two young men who hold their phones out in front as they walk. At the back a small number of women and children struggle to keep up as the pace quickens.
Fathers pick up flagging infants, and they move on to a gravel path towards the forest of the Parc du Polder, directly behind the beach.
The atmosphere appears jovial and the group laugh and joke.
Suddenly, the pleasant atmosphere vanishes. The group are met at a crossing point on a main road by three men in dark clothing with black face coverings.
Everyone goes quiet as they are ushered into single file and told to crouch on the edge of the path.
In groups of twos and threes they run, bending down low, across the road as quickly as they can before plunging down a mud-covered forest track into deep woodland which turns into miles of sand dunes.
Dog walkers stroll along the beach, oblivious to the dozens of people moving silently in the dunes just metres behind them. As dusk falls, four police officers conduct a cursory search of the area, seemingly aware that people are lying in wait, but indifferent about actually finding them.
The next morning a French navy ship patrols just off the coast and two police officers are monitoring the beach.
The officers say they believe there are around 200 people waiting in the dunes for inflatable rubber dinghies, supplied by people smugglers. The migrants can lie in wait for up to two days, they say.
The police claim they too are unable to do much more than wait. They have 30km (18.6miles) of coastline to patrol and not enough officers. In Gravelines, the sea remains calm, but no boats launch. Night falls, and those in the dunes lie quietly for the second evening, still patiently awaiting their chance.
Then just before sunrise, the moment arrives. Emerging from the dunes, a group half walk, half run towards the sea. The women and children head straight to the shoreline as the men begin inflating a large black rubber dinghy.
As the sun rises, they pick the boat up and hoist it above their heads.
For 20 minutes, the group fiddle with the outboard motor, desperately trying to get it to start.
Two policemen saunter down the beach to watch. It is a sight they have seen often before, and usually the engine will not start. More policemen begin to arrive and it quickly becomes clear that another boat, down the beach, is also trying to launch.
This group has inflated their boat in the dunes and are now carrying it straight towards the shoreline.
About 30 people surround it as they move with speed across the sand. It appears for a moment that they will be at sea within minutes, but then a burst of smoke erupts beneath the boat. Police have thrown a can of what appears to be tear gas into their midst.
Some of the migrants attempt to kick the cans away and try to carry on moving the dinghy, but most flee. The officers simply walk over and slash holes in the rubber so it cannot be reinflated.
Unsure of what to do next, the migrants stand around before walking, heads hung in resignation, back towards the dunes. The first boat, further back up the beach, has managed to get its engine running. As it judders into life and begins moving into the Channel, one man trying to get aboard slips from the back of the boat into the shallows.
His chance of crossing gone, for now, he is helped to his feet by three men, not wearing life jackets, who remain on the shore and wave the migrants off.
In the dunes, other groups of men, women and children wait and watch the drama unfold.