A cup of coffee before an unforgettable day
9am, port of La Ciotat, I'm having my coffee on the terrace.
Since that call from the Team Macif press officer two days ago, I've been trying to keep my mind occupied, to distract it from this incredible opportunity to sail on a unique machine, in the company of a unique skipper, as part of a unique team.
A few notes in my notebook, some research on the internet, enough to give me some answers when I ask the team my questions, but my mind is elsewhere, my eyes fixed on the black arrow, now so close.
With the team, we join the temporary Macif base.
The giant trimaran Macif is waiting for me alongside the quay
On the quay, all is contrast. The base is bathed in serenity and professionalism. The jovial, relaxed mood is in stark contrast to the machine just a few meters away, a catalyst for marine fantasies, seemingly devouring the sea even when stationary.
Even though I know it's 30 metres long, it's hard to tell. It's only when the crew comes aboard that you realize how big some of the parts are. Here, everything seems monstrous. It's often said that a boat is alive. I've never felt it as strongly as I did next to this one, and this impression will only increase throughout the day.
I put on the overalls and lifejacket provided. Harnessed up like this, in the Macif colors, jacket in hand so as not to bake stupidly in the sun, the adrenalin is pumping. It's true, I'm not dreaming, I'm really going sailing with them.
François Gabart as companion for the day
François Gabart welcomes us aboard. The mooring lines slip, the engine begins to purr, the tenders start to move. We leave the harbor.
With an owner's tour, safety rules and friendly advice ("No, it's not a good idea to hold on to the mainsail track..."), we settle in while the five crew members get the boat underway.
Something strikes me and impresses me. This boat looks simple, very simple. It seemed to me that these boats were gasworks, consuming manpower, energy and time for the simplest of actions. Admittedly, we're a crew, and there's a perfect understanding between these five men who are well-versed in navigation, but still, hoisting the mainsail in just a few handfuls of seconds seems incredible to me. We unroll J2. The wind hasn't yet entered the harbor, maybe 5 knots on average, but my senses are playing tricks on me.
An incredible kick in the ass!
"Get behind the link arm, and hold on, we're going to accelerate," says François.
It was then, at that precise moment, that I experienced one of the greatest emotions of my life.
The sheets tense, cracking under the tension, the wind takes its place on the curves drawn by the sails. Then François pulls out all the stops, with a little shock: Macif reinvents the kick in the ass...
In a matter of seconds, we went from 5 to 38 knots, effortlessly and with disconcerting simplicity. I screamed, instinctively. A huge word, a release.
The leeward float resting on its foil barely caresses the top of the few waves, which are powerless to slow down the 14-ton boat hurtling towards the horizon.
Macif speeds up, François smiles
I turn to François, whose head protrudes from the helm station, a devastating smile on his lips.
Just a few minutes ago, he was composed, almost studious. His face has changed.
During a previous interview, when I asked him if he was happy to be back on land after spending weeks on the water, he replied that he was on land because he had to be, but that he really only lived to sail. And that's what his face looked like at that very moment. He was living again.
We slow down. I sort out my emotions, or at least I try to. I have to admit that I have rarely felt such a cocktail of pleasure. If I had to describe it, here are the ingredients: an enormous feeling of terrible power, disconcerting ease, diabolical precision, intangible fear, fabulous excitement, fundamental life, and the certainty of doing something rare. And like a slice of orange on the rim of the glass, the complicit exchange of a smile that speaks for itself. Thank you, François!
Impossible to slow the trimaran below 8 knots...
We take in a reef. Ahead of us, as we leave the bay of La Ciotat, the wind freshens. A small technical problem, at the end of the boom, with the furling line reluctant to work. You'd almost forget that the trimaran is still in the development phase. According to the crew, there's still 50% of the boat to be made reliable.
During the manoeuvre, the boat sails under full mainsail, barely leaning on the J3 which has replaced the J2, now too large at the bow. The scene is enough to make you smile. The skipper at the end of the boom, the boat in total slack, the crew chatting quietly. I could have sworn we were at a standstill. The 40-footer we're passing to leeward must not have the same notion of stopping as we do. Heeling heavily, almost overtopped, the crew in the counter-keel, soaked in their oilskins, enjoy a rare moment of edge-to-edge with Macif. I take a look at the speedo: we're still making 9 knots. François tells me: "It's difficult to slow the trimaran down below 8 knots". This sentence is a bit shocking for us yachtsmen, but it's true.
A solution was found for the reefing line and we set off again.
I took advantage of this downtime to put on the top of the wetsuit, and I was right to do so. Upwind, the main bow makes the water dance as it pierces it, while the windward foil decapitates the waves, making them explode.
I've totally lost touch with the notions of slowness and speed. As far as I'm concerned, we're dragging a bit. We're between 20 and 25 knots upwind. I've lost all my bearings on this machine, and I'm totally out of touch with my docksides.
Then we tack. Not easy in this trimaran weather. If the maneuver isn't perfect, or if the misfortune of a vicious wave invites itself, Macif will settle into the wind's bed for a long nap. To avoid this, the crew starts the engine, just in case. But they didn't have to this time.
I remain impressed by the apparent simplicity of the maneuvers. We pick up speed again. Quickly, we drop off. We're now making between 30 and 35 knots over the waves, in an epic ride.
François Gabart wants me to take the helm... I panic.
"Tom, do you want to steer?" I must have been mistaken, misinterpreting François' signs. "Come on!" No, I didn't. Micro panic. Don't think, say yes. Obviously. Don't tremble in fear, put on a big smile. I grasp the titanium wheel firmly, ready to do battle with the boat, and take the instructions: "We're going that way, this course is good." I put on a hell of a lot of pressure in fractions of a second. 30 meters, 35 knots, 1-2 meter troughs, multihull downwind, two foils, boat balanced... don't blow it.
It lasted 3 seconds. Time enough for me to realize that Macif is easier at the helm than my Dufour 31. It's simply amazing. No inertia, at once precise, lively and tolerant, naturally stable and intuitive, I keep one hand on the helm and balance with the other. In a few minutes, even less, I've got the rhythm. François returns to my side. "So, do you like it? Are you buying?" Please believe that I asked myself how much I could resell my organs for on the black market to validate this transaction. To tell you how easy this boat is at the helm, I gave up my seat - reluctantly, of course - to a young kid of about twelve. He sped along at around 40 knots, standing up on a sail bag to be tall enough. It must have been a change from the Optimist. But it certainly left a lasting impression on him, as it did on me.
Back on land, the end of a daydream
We return to the bay, sheltered from the wind. The tender comes to pick us up.
After welcoming the lucky new crew, the boat pulls out and accelerates. With the RIB, we follow. Then Her Majesty Macif accelerates and abandons us, despite the two overpowered outboards propelling us. It's unfair. While we're going slower, we're taking on heavy seas, getting knocked down by every wave, amid the roar of the engines... To think that an hour ago, I was gliding on the back of an angel, heading for paradise.
