As winter envelopes False Bay, those of us living along its rugged coastline begin the annual ritual of battering down the hatches. We clear mountain streams of autumn leaves to prevent flooding, patch leaky roofs, and in the lower-lying areas, residents dig trenches and pile sandbags to avoid the rising waters. As I write this, my neighbour is cutting down a dead tree next to my cottage with a chainsaw because he is afraid that it might damage my roof tomorrow with the over 100 km an hour winds forecast.

My own intrigue with this bay began at a very young age. I remember my mother shouting from our house above Woolly’s Pool in Kalk Bay; a naval rowboat was being swept dangerously close to the shore in heavy swells. I still have the picture of that boat etched in my memory. The gigantic south west swells and this boat rising on the peaks of the swells and disappearing in it’s troughs. It was a celebrated local incident—the Hare brothers, going out on their luxury tuna boat Esperanza, braved the conditions to rescue those sailors.
But for every rescue, the Bay has claimed its due.

Years later, while in high school, a Monday morning brought a personal tragedy. We learned that our choir teacher, Mrs. Wynn, a wonderful woman, had drowned over the weekend after the yacht she was on capsized. It was a stark reminder that while this bay is a paradise in summer, it is a formidable force in winter.

The “False” Horizon and the Ancient Mariners

It is difficult to pinpoint exactly when the first sail appeared on this horizon. Long before European records, the Phoenicians—commissioned by Pharaoh Necho II around 600 BC—may have rounded this point, noting the sun on their right hand as they sailed West. Later, Sir Francis Drake famously called it the “fairest Cape,” yet even he respected the waters enough to pass it by.

The name “False Bay” (Cabo Falso) was born from the navigational errors of the early Portuguese. Returning from the East, sailors would mistake the silhouette of Hangklip for Cape Point. They would turn North, thinking they were heading toward the Table Bay settlement, only to realize they were trapped in a 1,000-square-kilometer square of deceptive water.

A “Fickle” and Rough Sea

The bay is a geological marvel—roughly 30km by 30km, with an average depth of 40 meters. But its shallow, flat-bottomed nature is exactly what makes it so rough. When massive swells hit the shallower shelf, they translate into heavy “rollers” that have terrified sailors for centuries.
The 18th-century Dutch historian François Valentijn (Valentine) captured this perfectly in his accounts:

“This bay is very dangerous for those who do not know it… for the winds there are more fickle and the storms more sudden than in Table Bay.”

Accounts from the era of Simon van der Stel describe small wooden ships entering the bay, only for the captains to decide it was simply too rough to stay. They would turn around and head back into the open sea, preferring the predictable gales of the deep ocean to the chaotic chop of the Bay.

Of Bluefin Tuna and Vanishing Giants

Despite its dangers, the Bay provides endless marvels. It is a nursery for the Great Right Whales, a playground for schools of dolphins, and was once the undisputed kingdom of the Great White Shark—though their numbers are now sadly diminishing.
My father knew these waters intimately. In the late 1960s, he became the first angler in Africa to land a Bluefin Tuna from a ski boat—a record he still holds today. I remember him towing one massive fish into Kalk Bay Harbour because it was too large to bring on board, while two others were landed on Fish Hoek Beach, where he used to launch.

Returning to the Shore

Today, I find myself living once again along this same coast, near the very beach where those Bluefin were landed decades ago. As the North-Westerlies begin to howl and the heavy swells of the Cape of Storms roll in, I am reminded that False Bay is not just a body of water—it is a repository of stories. From the Phoenicians to the Hare brothers, and from my father’s records to the quiet memory of Mrs. Wynn, the Bay demands respect.
And as the rain hits the glass, it’s a respect we are only too happy to give.