“Par 37°54'627 South – 89° 05'826 East. The Indian certainly teaches me much more about myself than all the other oceans, as it resists me so much. The days pass by and I find it hard to believe that at the moment my hands are tapping on this keyboard, if I raise my head and look towards the north, I will turn towards India.
Travel without seeing. Come and tickle his chimerical mind with a simple inscription on a card. Smell the scents of native spices, fantasize about the frozen Kerguelen desert, suspect the alluvial deposits of the great Red Island (Madagascar). The miles go by. My imagination is refined.
I don't think about anything anymore. My brain feels numb. I find myself staring at the trail hidden under my improvised veranda. At the time when the sun from the low-pressure trail hits my face and leaves its comforting warmth there, I sit and that's it. I'm right here. I don't think about anything anymore and it feels good. I listen to my boat.
“I pray that the wind diminishes”
What a fantastic epic this tour of the invisible world is. Suddenly, the strength of the Indian abruptly pulls me out of my contemplative state. Night has fallen and the rare scattered lights sparkle between the grains distilled around my floating house.
A new front (zone of rain, transition and strengthening wind) is approaching. I feel a deep, heavy and insistent fatigue. For several days, the respite has locked himself in his cave and refused to come and visit me. Tons of water immerse the boat with each new landing, with each new wave. The noise is incessant. My eyes close and my whole body goes numb. Each new surf, each stroke of the bar wakes me up.
I'm sitting there. I pray that the wind dies down. I return to the chart table and select the representation of the wind force for the next 24 hours by a curve. It's going to go up again. Now is not the time to go and rest.
Four more hours to hold “Pépin” (his nickname): four hours, then the worst will be over. In four hours, the curve reverses. The idea of a deadline saves my mind. I understand that what's hard is when you don't know how long it will last.
The cold of the night invited itself into the cockpit. The humidity invaded the entire boat. Or should I say my submarine.
“I endure. I want »
Sometimes he accelerates, jumps a first wave, then suddenly, like a springboard sensation, the boat takes off. Suspended. For a second, no more noise, nothing, nothingness… I hold on where I can. He has passed the next wave and he still has to slide down this one. The speedometer rises again to 27.28 knots, soon 33. The next wave will serve as an emergency stopping wall. The wires whip the cockpit with incredible violence and act as a resonance box. The mainsail halyard hits along the mast and adds to the permanent hubbub.
Only 27 knots left on the wind sensor. There is hope. Then goes out almost instantly when the same small screen shows 42 knots, a few minutes later.
I want this to stop. And yet, I refuse to slow down. It would be enough for me to furl my largest headsail, adjust my course by a few degrees and go to sleep peacefully… But the suffering of moving in slow motion would at that moment be more painful than that of depriving myself of sleep to watch “Théophile” (the name of his boat) pierce the night at full speed. So I endure. I'm holding on.
“More happy than ever to be “again” in the Vendée Globe! »
What a strange sensation this sweet schizophrenia is. This absolute desire for this permanent anxiety to cease. Absolutely. Instantly. And already when the wind diminishes, the pace fades, the desire grows to return to these extravagant speeds.
It’s 6:35 p.m. (UT). The darkness no longer lets any light shine. Time for me to join my famous favorite yellow beanbag for a restorative nap. But this is the Vendée Globe. And this one is determined to push me to my most extreme limits.
It's 7:05 p.m. (UT)? I write to my technical team: “Alert!! A part of the hydraulic cylinder has just exploded. The boat is lying. Oil everywhere. I'll secure it and come back to you. Damn! »
I just experienced the worst night ever spent at sea. I'm exhausted but still on track to complete the loop. It’s a little miracle that I will take the time to tell you about.
Good luck to everyone! And more than ever happy to be “again” in the Vendée Globe! »
