Vendée Globe Day 8
My mantra before this Vendee Globe race started was… nothing will be the same. And it was a good thing to keep in my mind. Because the first week of this race has been nothing like the last one. It is already hot onboard, 25 in the cabin now, and I am writing at night time. The bow is pointing South, heading down the latitudes to towards the equator and I am currently about 270 miles north of the latitude of the Cape Verde islands. Here, now, I should be working my way downwind in the established trades, but instead I am reaching in a fickle wind that oscillates by 50 degrees in ten minutes changing in wind strength as well. Medallia is struggling to fly in these conditions. The sea is flat but we are loaded up with food, tools, spares to take on the world and the extra weight keeps my hull in the water. At the times when the breeze is enough to take off, we will accelerate up to 20 knots, the rumbling under the hull fades to a whistle, and for an exquisite few seconds it feels like the equator and the Southern hemisphere are within sight. Then we land again, the wind drops and we are back to the ten knot pace of mere mortals.
The start day with crowds was theatrical and emotional. I remember walking down that dock, feeling so utterly alone on November 8th 2020, and this time my bay was lined with family and friends to wish me well. Before descending down the pontoon a voice behind me said, ‘you have a good boat’ I turned and went a little giddy to be looking into the face of Armel Le Cl’each, the first skipper of this boat and current course record holder. Around my boat there are still good luck messages written over the bulkheads for Armel. I never sanded them off as they are part of the history of this incredible boat.
Having time to hug so many of the people I care about and to hear them wish me well let me leave the dock with courage, then head down the canal, which was lined with people crammed on to every spare section of wall, rock or beach down the half mile stretch to the sea. The noise of the crowds just kept coming, cheering, shouting, claxons, a band, signs and flags being waved. I could spot signs for me, union jacks among the Vendee and French flags. I thought the enthusiasm would wane but there was never a break in the good wishes from the shore.
What an incredible experience. What a love for our amazing sport. I know a lot of people travelled from the UK to come and support me and I want to thank everyone so very much.
After a little drifting we were straight into some big breeze downwind conditions and the first three days of the race were tough. Physically and mentally. The manoeuvres were frequent. With sail changes and gybes burning through calories and not allowing much time to sleep or even think in between. The fleet was close together and on three occasions I had to take avoiding action for another IMOCA after not being able to raise the skipper on the radio. It was tense and fast paced and I had been struggling to sleep the nights before the start, full of anxiety and stress so my energy levels plummeted. I was existing, sailing reasonably well, managing not to damage sails or myself and the first five days of the race took their toll on other skippers. One having lost a whole sail and all its sheets and hardware over the side, another ripped a huge whole in his mainsail, while Maxime Sorrell after climbing the mast to repair damage to his headboard locking system, hurt his ankle so badly he has had to retire from the race after only five days.
im I had started well and then taken down my A2 Big Bertha, (the largest of my sails) early, being spooked by 15 minutes of strong breeze. It was such an effort to take it down and pack it, when the wind dropped again I did not put it up but stayed on the smaller sail and so suffered for the whole night. I kicked and kicked and kicked myself for this mistake. But after some days of self-punishment I’ve come to the understanding that I can’t change what I did so there is no point in dwelling on it. I’ve galvanised, remembered the experience and resolved to do it differently the next time. I didn’t damage the boat in the first few days of a round the world race and that counts for something. Now it’s time to move forward again.
The weather in the Atlantic is odd. The fleet stretches out 800 miles east to west straddling the longitude of the Cape Verde islands, all of us trying to find a good breeze to get South. I invested in the West option and have spent a couple of days just sailing west, not making ground south at all. It’s a horrible feeling, not sailing in the ‘right’ direction. But it seemed there would be a more consistent wind in the West and less risk of total shut down. We will see over the coming 48hr how well my strategy pays off.
With a couple of days of good sleep and routine behind me I feel more charged up than at the start. The full freedom and challenge of this race has landed properly and I am reminded that alone, you have no option but to be the best you possibly can. There is no one else to step up in my place. This is my time to bring everything I have to the table and I must take it.
The lack of wind is frustrating but the Atlantic nights have not disappointed. The moon is huge at the moment, when it rose yesterday it was a burning yellow, reflecting the last glow of the sunset on the opposite horizon back at me. The air is warm and feels smooth against bare skin. The horizon can’t be seen as the sea and the sky merge in to one at the edges of my world. Yep, it’s amazing.
Looking ahead I hope to cross the equator in about four days and am already starting to look at routes in to the South. I keep reminding myself I am racing around the world. I’ve done it before but my mind can’t quite grasp the duration and I know, I really know that there are going to be some of the hardest times ahead, I just can’t imagine what they will look like.
Pip x