Being a sailor
Sailing is not an activity for impostors. In many professions, you can bluff and bluff with impunity. In boating, you either know or you don't. Woe betide cheaters. The ocean is merciless.
Sailing means accepting the constraints you've chosen. It's a privilege. Most human beings are subject to the obligations that life has imposed on them.
The ejected sailor is a sailor who lacked concentration. There's an old saying: "One hand for the man, one hand for the ship." It's true. During a maneuver or a move on deck, you always have to make sure you have a catch within reach, because it's almost impossible for a pack of seas to let it go.
I don't really trust safety harnesses. When you have to maneuver, especially single-handed, they get in the way. You have to go from bow to stern, and when you do, the safety line slipping through the lanyard creates countless opportunities to get your feet tangled and trip.
...but...
When you're stranded in the North Atlantic, you don't even have time to say a prayer: you freeze to death almost instantly. I like life and I don't want to die stupidly. That's why the rope I've tied around my waist is so strong.
Being a sailor is a humbling profession, requiring a long apprenticeship. The sea punishes the brave .
Since ancient times, a handful of men have always been drawn to the inaccessible horizon.
The word
We smile without saying anything. In these moments of happiness, words run the risk of sounding false or of being distressingly banal. Happiness is enjoyed in silence.
To finish with my "silences", i confess that it's hard for me to answer trivial, if not silly, questions. The typical example is when, on returning from a race, someone asks me, "So, happy to be first?" What can I say but: "Yes"? I don't know of any winner whose victory has put them in a peevish mood.
I inherited this reluctance to talk from my mother, a strong-willed and discreet woman who hated talking about nothing .
This may come as a surprise to those who have given me an inaccurate reputation as a bear, a taciturn, a media disaster. That's not knowing me very well. I'm not a talker, but I'm not a silent one. On the contrary, I like to talk, and when the subject interests me, I can be inexhaustible. But if the conversation gets bogged down in subjects I'm indifferent to, then I mentally tune out, shut up, and sometimes even fall asleep.
The love story
When people ask me about Pen Duick, too, if I'm happy she's still sailing at her age, i am unable to make the effort to answer . It's obvious that feeling that wooden deck under my feet makes me happy, and listening to its familiar sounds, its own way of talking to me, gives me pleasure. Otherwise, for almost forty years, would I have gone into debt and pulled the devil out by the tail to keep Pen Duick gliding on the sea? I've forgotten nothing of what we went through together.
There she is, superb, under her auric rigging, sniffing the wind, gauging the strength of the sea, shivering in anticipation of the first ripple: an object d'art, precious, demanding, sensual, lively, capricious, this is Pen Duick, my boat .
To disappoint the tender-hearted, my attachment to this black hull has nothing to do with the fact that she belonged to my father. To believe that I became infatuated with this sailboat, went into debt for it, tormented myself to save it out of filial love would be wrong. I saved Pen Duick, which was rotting in a mudflat, because I've always been sensitive to her beauty. Time has taken nothing away from her nobility.
When I look at him, in his black suit and sails, he reminds me of a dignified old gentleman. Between him, whose unassuming figure is celebrating his 100th birthday, and me, the retired navy man, an affection has grown up that has marked both our lives. Without me, he would have been a wreck. Without him, my life would undoubtedly have been different. His name is Pen Duick âeuros â??black-capped titâ? in Breton. She doesn't carry a number like her successors. In a pinch, I could call her â??Pen Duick Premierâ?. As we say "first love . Because the story of this learned centenarian is a sentimental one.
Living with passion
Giving up in a competition just because you can't finish first is incompatible with the spirit of sport .
Man needs passion to exist while some fight to keep Venice afloat, others spend their lives restoring an old ruined castle. Pen Duick is a masterpiece of naval architecture. It didn't have to die. I've always wanted it to survive and to sail.
Trust is a major factor without it, no project can succeed.
It's clumsy, when a man is moved, he doesn't know how to express his feelings out of manly modesty.
Time shrinks or seems to speed up as the date of the goal approaches.
Most of my life has been spent on the sea. I don't yet feel able to watch others leave, and myself stay on the dock.
Raised Catholic, for a long time I was a churchgoer. Then, one day, I asked myself why this God of Love allowed so much filth and misery on our earth. Perhaps the answer will come to me in the afterlife. In the meantime âeuros sans hâte âeuros an explanation, when I'm in difficulty, I never call on him to help me by praying "My God, do something... If he got me into trouble, then why would he come after me next?
