His very first navigation, he made it at the age of six. This was undoubtedly decisive, since he has since developed a passion for sailing racing. He began a professional career there in 2008. Now based in La Baule, this thirty-something placed third last November in the Transat Jacques Vabre Normandie Le Havre in the Multi50 category.
The view
This is 2007. I'm taking part in the Transgascogne, a double-handed event. It was one of my first races... We set off from Port Bourgenay, in the direction of Giron, in Spain. That's where we face the most powerful front I've known so far. And we're sailing on a very small boat of only 6.50 m! Just imagine: at the front of the front, the uniformly grey sky is so low; the intense rain is hitting us violently; the wind is increasing... And here we are in the heart of the storm: the wind is reaching 60-65 knots, incredible! The sea has flattened out. A false lull, because as soon as the front passed, it was unleashed once again: monstrous hollows measuring between 6 and 8 metres... And these huge waves are breaking over us, almost turning us over at every moment. As it's night time, we try to light up the front of the boat with a large spotlight to see what's happening to us: we try to anticipate the breaking of the ridges by turning in their direction to avoid capsizing... Clearly, in the middle of these raging elements, I had the strange feeling that I had no business being there! There will be eight or nine skippers hoisting up around us: a real hecatomb... We'll pass them by: luck certainly!
The touch
It's a rare sensation I can think of. I can only feel it on board, it seems to me. It's that unique feeling of being one with an object, of feeling that I'm one with my boat. Let me explain: the autopilot is engaged; I put my hands on the cap, or I hold a sheet ... And then, at certain moments, which make me intensely love sailing race, I hear, through my palms, what my boat is telling me. It's a kind of encoding that takes place between him and me. I perceive the vibrations, their frequency and strength, jolts, regular or sudden, decelerations and accelerations... My hands become essential sensors for me. More important than what I actually see. And I can stay listening for hours like this, enjoying this connection between him and me. And then it stops, often suddenly. Somehow I try to recreate this connection, but... that's why the touch gives me a certain exhilaration I must say!
Hearing
Of course, there is the noise, very specific, of navigation, which comes immediately to mind. I'm so used to it: the wind blowing, the rough sea, the automatic pilot acting, the boat running, banging... I also remember the voices, especially that of Matthieu Souben, my team mate in the last Transat Jacques Vabre. When, in the middle of the Atlantic, on a racing boat, two guys alone are talking to each other, it can't be like ashore in a "normal" context. The subjects that are discussed then go far beyond, of course, the regatta, the strategy or the route to follow... The exchanges are of a different depth, of a much greater truth. The comments made take on a particular strength. Everything points to it. Ashore, everything is of a more modest intensity. I remember one difficult decision we had to make: we had to stop in Cape Verde. We exchanged then, and we were "naked", physically as well as morally. At times like that, everything that is said is pure, extreme sincerity. Nothing like an aperitif ashore at a friend's house, where we share daily news, where we discuss subjects with no particular issues at stake... Asking "how are you" when a deckchair arrives is not really like saying "how are you?" at the bar. Words can't have the same meaning, so..
Taste
To tell the truth, I don't pay much attention to this sense when I run, because it has no action on performance, which is what I'm interested in above all! But, of course, there's the iodized air, which you can always taste in your mouth. More episodically, I remember that of toothpaste. And the pleasant sensation of clean teeth after brushing! It's a super nice little treat that I give myself a few days after leaving. Not immediately afterwards, because my toiletries are always at the bottom of my bag. For the first few days at least, I prefer other activities than washing: for example, sleeping! Getting dressed is only an accessory for me then. When I'm in doubles, it's a minimum of respect for my teammate who makes me take out my brush and paste earlier. Once I've got all my gear out and within easy reach, this general feeling of freshness that keeps me fresh, I give it to myself more frequently. Another taste comes to mind: that of the first bite of a freeze-dried dish... which I may or may not appreciate, by the way! From one run to the next, I forget the tastes they all have, so there's always a little suspense for me before that first bite. The best good surprise I've had about it is the small salty lentil, well balanced and enhanced by laurel. It must be this good taste of the land, of the countryside, that I appreciate in the open sea! With Mathieu Souben, we discovered it during the delivery of the boat to Le Havre to take the start of the Transat Jacques Vabre last year. And we opened up another one during the race, just after crossing the equator: we ate something useful of course, as it's nourishing, but also with pleasure because it reminds us a bit of dry land!
The sense of smell
My best memories of smells when I'm at sea are linked to the land... The one of a coast that I follow without even stopping, but that I feel very present there, especially when I'm downwind. Cape Verde, the Canary Islands... The scents coming from the land and the human activities that take place there. It's a sort of olfactory postcard - and I think it's nice - that I receive on my boat through my nostrils! I then try to imagine what is going on over there... When it is the end of a deckchair, these smells are more intense, because they are brand new, they come after a period of abstinence! It's a first contact with the land I left some time ago. And there I say to myself: "Here, they eat a little fat here", or "it's polluted over there"... Of course, for me who really loves competition, performance, the scent of victory is unequalled: in 2013, when I raced the Transat Jacques Vabre, when I smelled the Caribbean soil, when I understood that I was going to win... But, at that moment, it wasn't just my sense of smell that was aroused, it's true, all my senses were!
What about fear?
2008, the Pornichet Select in 6.50. One of my first races. Just crossed the finish line in second place. Baie de la Baule ahead. 4:30 in the morning. Dark night. Big low pressure system. 35 knots of wind. 22: that's my age. An age at which you're still a bit crazy. An age that doesn't really allow you to be aware of the danger. At the front of the boat, I'm going to lower my genoa. A breaker... and I fall into the water. 12°C: I'm wearing leggings. And I tell myself that it's going to be a hard time, but I can't imagine staying there. And then, minute by minute... nobody. Alone in the sea. Fear. I'm starting to accept that it could happen, without really being conscious of it. Something that comes to me, little by little. I'm fighting like a lion, yes, to stay there, but then I also understand that everything can also end there. And those bright buildings in front of me, appearing and disappearing in the sandstone of the waves. The fear, then, of simply dying, of not seeing your loved ones again, is imposed, accompanied, almost counterbalanced in fact, by a global acceptance of what will - fatal... - undoubtedly happen. If I have the impression of accepting, it is also probably because I am starting to get high. My body weakens, my senses become numb/anesthetized: only vitality is assured then... And held, in the end. When I was finally found, an hour and a half had passed. Almost naked, because I had taken off my clothes to lighten up. My lungs filled with water. 33°C. A long loss of consciousness... Not coming back to land, that's not the goal in sailing races!
