A coffee before an unforgettable day
9:00 am, port of La Ciotat, I have my coffee on the terrace
Since that call from the Macif Team's Press Manager two days ago, I've been trying to keep my mind occupied, to divert it from this incredible opportunity, that of sailing on a single machine, in the company of a single skipper, within a single team.
A few notes on my notebook, some research on the internet, enough to have a little answer when I ask my questions to the team, but the head is elsewhere, eyes fixed on the black arrow, now so close.
With the team, we join the temporary base of Macif.
The giant trimaran Macif is waiting for me along the quayside
On the platform, everything is a contrast. The base is bathed in serenity and obvious professionalism. The jovial and relaxed mood that emerges from it stands out clearly against the machine a few metres away, this catalyst of marine fantasies, seeming to devour the sea even when it stops.
As much as I know it's 30 metres, it's complicated to realize. It is only when the crew boarded that some parts are measured. Everything here seems monstrous. It is often said that a boat is alive. I have never felt it as strong as next to it, and this feeling will only increase throughout the day.
I put on the overalls and life jacket provided. Harnessed in this way, in Macif's colours, the jacket in hand so as not to cook stupidly in the sun, the adrenaline rises. So it's true, I'm not dreaming, I'm really going to sail with them.
François Gabart as accompanist of the day
François Gabart welcomes us on board. The moorings slide, the engine starts to purr, the tenders start to move. We leave the port.
Owner's tour, safety rules, friendly advice ("No, it's not a good idea to stand on the mainsail rail..."), we take our marks while the five crew members start the boat.
Something strikes me and impresses me. This boat looks simple, very simple. It seemed to me that these boats were gas plants that ate people, energy and time for the simplest actions. Of course, we are crewed and there is a perfect harmony between these five men who are experienced in sailing, but nevertheless, hoisting the mainsail in a few handfuls of seconds seems incredible to me. We unroll the J2. The wind has not yet stopped, 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 stand up, we'll accelerate," says François.
It was at that moment, at that very moment, that I experienced one of the biggest emotions of my life.
The wind takes its place on the curves drawn by the sails. Then François frankly shoots down, shocking a little: Macif reinvents with a kick in the ass...
In a few seconds, we go from 5 to 38 knots, without any effort, and in a disconcerting simplicity. I screamed, instinctively. A huge swear word, a release.
The leeward float resting on its foil barely caresses the top of the few waves that are powerless to try to slow down the 14 tons launched towards the horizon.
Macif accelerates, François smiles
I turn to François, whose head protrudes from the helm station, with a devastating smile on his face.
A few minutes ago, he was calm, almost studious. His face has changed.
When I asked him in a previous interview if he was happy to come back to land a little after spending weeks on the water, he replied that if he was on land it was because he had to be there a little bit, but that he really only lived to sail. And his face, at that very moment, that was it. He was reliving.
We're slowing down. I'm sorting through my emotions, or at least I'm trying. I have to admit that I have rarely felt such a cocktail of pleasure. If it had to be described, here are the ingredients: a huge feeling of terrible power, disconcerting ease, diabolical precision, intangible fear, fabulous excitement, fundamental life, and the certainty of doing something rare. And like an orange slice on the rim of the glass, the exchange of a smile that does not require words. Thank you François!
Impossible to slow the trimaran down below 8 knots...
We take one reef. In front of us, at the exit of the bay of La Ciotat, the wind is freshening. A small technical problem, at the end of the boom with the furling line which is reluctant to work. We would almost forget that the trimaran is still in the development phase. According to the crew, 50% of the boat still needs to be made more reliable.
During the manoeuvre, the boat sails with a shocked mainsail, barely pressing on the J3, which has replaced the now too large J2 at the front. The scene is something to smile about. The skipper at the end of the boom, the boat on a total break, it's a quiet conversation between the crew. I could have sworn we were at a standstill. The 40 feet we pass downwind must not have the same notion of stopping as we do. Forte gîte, limit overtopped, the crew members at the counter-gite, soaked in their oilskins, enjoy a rare moment from one side to the other with Macif. I'm looking at the speedo: we're still at 9 knots. François tells me: "It's difficult to slow the trimaran down below 8 knots". This sentence is a little shocking for us boaters, but it is true.
A solution is found for the reefing line and we leave.
I took advantage of this time out to put on the top of the suit, and I did the right thing. We sail upwind and the main bow makes the water dance as it passes through, while the windward foil decapitates the waves, blowing them apart.
I have totally lost the notions of slowness and speed. For me, we're dragging our feet a little bit. We're sailing at between 20 and 25 knots upwind. On this device, I no longer have any landmarks, totally next to my docksides.
Then we move on. Not easy in this weather in a trimaran. If the manoeuvre is not perfect or if the misfortune of a vicious wave comes along, Macif will calm down in the wind bed and take a long nap. To avoid this, the crew starts the engine, just in case. Without having to use it this time.
I remain impressed by the apparent simplicity of the manoeuvres. We're picking up speed. Quickly, we cut down. It is now between 30 and 35 knots that we are sailing over the waves, in an epic ride.
François Gabart wants to give me the helm... I'm freaking out.
"Tom, do you want to steer?" I must have made a mistake, misinterpreted François' signs. "Come on!" No, I didn't make a mistake. Panic microphone. Don't think, say yes. Of course I do. Do not tremble with fear, display a big smile. I firmly grab the titanium ferris wheel, ready to fight with the boat, and take the instructions: "We're going over there, this heading is good." I put myself under a lot of pressure in a few fractions of a second. 30 metres, 35 knots, 1 to 2 metres deep, multihull downwind, two foils, boat in balance... don't break everything.
It lasted 3 seconds. By the time I realized that Macif was easier at the helm than my Dufour 31. It's just amazing. No inertia, precise, lively and tolerant, naturally stable and intuitive, I keep one hand on the bar and balance with the other. In a few minutes, even less, I got into the rhythm. François comes back to me. "So, do you like it? Are you buying?" Please believe that I have wondered how much I could sell my organs on the black market to validate this transaction. To tell you how easy this boat is at the helm, I gave up my place - with regret, of course - to a young kid of about twelve years old. He made spikes around 40 knots standing on a sail bag to be tall enough. It must have changed him from the Optimist. But of course it marked him for life, just like me.
Back to shore, the end of a waking dream
We return to the bay, sheltered from the wind. The tender is coming to get us.
After welcoming the new lucky crew, the boat swung down and accelerated. With the semi-rigid, we follow him. Then His Majesty Macif accelerates and abandons us, despite the two super-powerful speedboats that propel us. It's not fair. While going slower, we take sea breezes, we get packed at each wave, in the howling of the engines... To think that an hour ago, I was hovering on the back of an angel, heading for heaven.
