Originally from Montpellier, Luce Molinier, a graduate in mechanical engineering from the National Institute of Applied Sciences (Insa) in Lyon, has a life rich in experience. Having switched from sailing fencing following a family drama, she moved to Lorient 15 years ago. From this attraction to sailing and racing, she turned it into a book, "L'océan dans les yeux - Carnet d'une navigatrice en solitaire". In 2019, at the age of 39, she finished 5th in the Fastnet Race in mixed doubles.
The view
In 2008, those who ran the Transgascogne paid dearly! In the gulf, there was an upwelling of the ocean floor, a 45 to 50 knot wind, breaking waves on the beam with three or four metre high waves which set our 6.50... And that lasted four or five hours. The sky, although a little grey, was surprisingly rather clear. There were even rays of sunshine that illuminated it and gave it, on the horizon, a yellow-orange hue at the end of the day. The sea was grey, silvery at times when the sun reached it, and whitened here and there by the crests of the waves. There was an impressive contrast between the skies and the waters... It reminded me of the Mediterranean, where I come from: there, it is believed that with such a sky, good weather and wind are guaranteed for the next day! Because of what I'd experienced on the outward journey, I almost didn't take the start of the return leg from Gijon to Talmont Saint-Hilaire. I was really apprehensive. So much so that I doubted that sailing was for me at the time... And then, as in the mini class, we're supervised during the races, I set off again, a bit like a rider who has fallen and has to get back on her horse right away! In short, on the way back, we had the same atmosphere from the point of view of colours and light. But the weather conditions were much milder and had nothing to do with the outward journey! However, as I'd been marked by the first leg, I must admit that it stressed me out... And besides, since this Transgascogne, these colours, even if they're magnificent, I'm still wary of them.
I have another memory about the view. It was on the same leg back... Ideal sailing conditions: 20 knots of wind and a pleasant swell. I was on the open water, the boat was slipping. It was night, dark. I was outside. And there, at one point, even though I couldn't make out much, I saw a helicopter fighter. I heard the blades flapping in the wind. And underneath, I could see a warship. It was as if military manoeuvres were taking place in front of me. A customs chopper and a big trawler, it could have been that, too... if it had been true! I looked far into my resources during this race that I ran solo. And, at that moment, I had these hallucinations: I simply thought I was in the middle of a naval battle! I was so convinced of that that I called the Cross on the 16th... Fortunately, I came across someone who was very understanding! Someone who understood what was happening to me, who reassured me, who told me that there was no operation going on around here. Someone who advised me to go to bed, which I did!
The touch
It's in the Mediterranean, I think, and if so, towards the island of Porquerolles. I'm not sure when either, I confess. On the other hand, I remember very precisely this feeling if... But let's start at the beginning: it's early morning, after a cool night. The sun rises lazily while I'm sitting quietly in the cockpit. The boat is sailing downwind under spinnaker, a configuration I find magical... I look around me at the air, the sea, the land perhaps. So I take off my boots, free my feet, and on top of that I feel the gentle warmth of the first rays of sunshine. It warms me, it caresses me. Little by little, it spreads over me... until it melts into the warmth of my cup of coffee! What a breakfast... There's another pleasant sensation linked to the touch that comes to mind. The fine, yellow, warm sand: that's how I prefer it. And that's how I try, before each race start, to touch a few grains of it. To plunge my feet into it. It's a kind of ritual for me. Touching sand to leave the earth: a way of saying goodbye.
Hearing
Most of the time, I sail solo or with a small crew. I must therefore be able to use all my sensitive faculties: I feel I'm putting myself in "primitive human" mode, a bit like our prehistoric ancestors who had to be constantly on the lookout for danger in order to survive... So, without this preventing me from sleeping well, I always stay in a kind of vigil. If the boat makes an unusual noise, I hear it, and I act. I think it's a state that's really specific to this racing situation at sea. In short, the noise I'm thinking about goes a bit against all that: it's the strident ringing of my alarm clock on board, which I use in particular to keep watch or, when I'm alone, when I'm approaching the coast. Usually I wake up naturally before it rings, because I'm 'awake' as I explained. But sometimes... Ah those deafening beep beep beep beep beep beep beep! I don't know how many decibels they're set at, but I know they make me jump... and my stress too, because I'm afraid I've overslept because I didn't wake up by myself! They scratch my ears as much as they do because they're actually quite incongruous noises in the open sea... And of course, that's why I use them!
Another sound, the other way around, one I love. I heard it 10,000 miles off Barcelona, at the finish of a single-handed regatta. I'm trying to make headway, but the sailing conditions are...soft. All of a sudden I hear, just six or seven metres away from me, a breath, noisy, powerful. Not aggressive, no, but long, yes... for a breath I mean! I had the sudden sensation of not being alone at all. It was a whale, huge, right there: so surprising, so magical! The cries of the dolphins are more familiar to me, but also touch me. I translate them into something like: "Come on, come on, we're here with you! ». They give me heart to the work. And I've noticed that I always hear them when I'm down in the dumps, or less fishing than usual. Whatever the weather conditions, and wherever I am on the seas, the dolphins come to help me. I assure you, I have magical friends!
Taste
For me, that sense at sea is altered. There's too much salt, too much iodine for me to really smell something. I need to season, spice, really, food to make it taste good. So I pay attention to other sensations I can feel in my mouth: for example, soups that warm me up. When it's cold, when I'm not feeling well, I like to eat "petits-plats-plaisirs": rougaille-saucisse, that's my favourite... And then, like many skippers, I think, I enjoy a good salad with a hamburger or a tasty rib-eye steak... in short, meat and fresh! I wouldn't be honest if I didn't tell you about the Nutella. I'm hooked, that's it, that's what I'm saying. I'm not a soul eater, but this! Of course, ecologically speaking... Of course, dietetically speaking... Of course, of course... But me, I'm dry, physically, and I expend a lot of energy, so I can afford it, can't I?! Anyway, I always have a pot stowed on board. And when everything's going well, I love to devour a Nutella on bread... when it's not Nutella on bread, rather ! When I sail with a crew, I negotiate to be able to take some with me! For the Fasnet, for example, I ran with a crew member I didn't know. So we swapped before getting to know each other on board for a while. And, yes, when we talked about food and weight hunting, I told him about the Nutella, as a necessity for me to have some on board! I told him I could share... A memorable spoonful? It was during a race, I wasn't too badly ranked. It was at the end of the day, under spinnaker, with good weather conditions. The boat was sailing. A beautiful sunset and I opened my pot..
top!
The sense of smell
I'm going back to my whale. In the wake of his breath, there was an effluvium... And him, not so pleasant to tell the truth: a dirty old fridge, rotten cheese, rancid food, musty food, confined feet... that's what I imagined could lodge in his stomach and be the cause of such a bad smell! In fact, I expected so little that this beautiful animal could smell that, that I turned around to see if there wasn't a fishing boat or a cargo ship behind me! The myth of the whale took a bit of a battering, I must say, that day... Another type of smell comes to mind: the scents of the land that come back from the breeze as we approach the coast. They are useful to me, strategically, during the races, to choose which wind to use. And, in most cases, I find them just as pleasant: for example, that of the scrubland heated by the sun or that of the maritime pines. They delight me and, as soon as they become intense, they take me to the Mediterranean... In the past too, when I sailed there with my parents. There are more humane ones, such as the hyperchemical cotton candy. This one is more fun than charming!
What about fear?
Still during this 2008 Transgascogne, and still in these very complicated sailing conditions, I had to go and change the sail at one point at the bow. I wanted to put on the storm jib. As it was moving around a lot, I attached myself to the boat. But then a breaker laid my mini down, and I went into the water up to my waist, quite a lot. My vest went off. Luckily, I was still tied up. But I had to get back on board. I hung on to the candlesticks as long as I could. Then I pulled myself aboard. When I got up, I changed my sail and went into the cockpit. There I was, sitting in the back, in shock, as if I was paralysed... And it was only then that I realised what had just happened, and that I got this fear in my head! I redid the film: the front, the storm, the fall, the candlesticks, the sail... And what? Did I miss something that explains it all? Is it really worth the risk? In hindsight, I realized our formidable survival instinct, the prodigious capacity of our brain to disconnect our emotions while we're running away, and then release them just when we need to! I was only afraid afterwards: at the moment that could have been dramatic, I was in action, only in action!
