As he passed through the Scilly mountains, a depression settled over the English Channel and Brittany. Jean-Baptiste will experience winds of over 50 knots and troughs up to 5 metres. A story of this adventure that ends with a hoist and the abandonment of his boat.
I have been passing the Scilly for a few hours in a rather light wind. Barely two knots. I am under Spi Medium and progresses painfully when I have difficulty picking up the weather at the SSB: the bulletin announces a notice of great expenses. Nothing very surprising, considering the fall of the barometer. I left Lorient six days ago. The weather forecast at the time of departure announced 20 knots of downwind sailing for this period. On my way, I couldn't get any other weather, the SSB is not going well to Ireland and my mobile phone doesn't pick up. Apparently the depression has deepened a little more than expected.
I am therefore preparing to face the rough weather by installing the second pair of sheets and tack to be able to arry the solent. At 0200 hours, the wind is established to the north at 20 knots. Downwind wind. It's time for me to lower the spinnaker and bring the tied gennaker back into the spinnaker. At 04h the wind has risen to 40 knots, I already have 3 reefs in the mainsail and lower the end of the solent which I secure in the lines.
It's coming in downwind
During this manoeuvre on the front beach, I get rinsed off. I'm wet down to the underlayment. To keep warm, I change and put on my GST (survival suit). The gusts reached 50 knots. I have never sailed in similar conditions before. Even if it is difficult to rest properly, I am quite serene. The boat reacts well, the pilot is good. The sea is getting bigger and bigger, I reach up to 18 knots by lowering the waves in devilish surfs, just under mainsail with 3 reefs!
At dawn I discover the state of the sea and the waves. That's impressive!!! The waves are really big, but above all very steep and break at the top. It is both terrifying and hypnotizing, of wild beauty. I stay a while to contemplate, clinging to the cap of my roof (and of course attached by my lanyard to the cockpit).
50 knots of wind established.
I've been on the run for more than 12 hours now, back to the waves, back to the wind. It's a long time. It's not easy to get busy as the boat's movements are so violent. At times the boat leaves at the luff, but the pilot quickly puts it back on track. The wind does not drop below 40 knots and even remains above 50 knots for a few hours.
First capsize
15h20. I'm sitting inside the door, fortunately closed. The boat leaves again for the luff and before I have time to realize what's going on, I find myself stuck on the ceiling. All the matossed bags in the nets fall on me. Through the roof window, I can see underwater. The boat is upside down! He's going to get back to the right place. It is difficult to say how long it lasted. Maybe 20 seconds that seemed like an eternity to me. He comes back from the same side from which he started. All the cases fell violently to the ground.
I open the descent hatch and go out to see the damage. The boat gybed. I'm taking over the helm to put it back on the right side. Everything seems to be in order. On the other hand, the bazaar inside is indescribable. It's all a mess. My wet clothes that I had left lying around are bathed in water, the bags of sailing equipment have been emptied and the pencils, Cras ruler, frontal... have been scattered in the "four corners" of the boat.
A VHF call to report my situation
Via the VHF, I try to contact the CROSS to report the incident. But being too far from the coast, only a cargo ship answers me. In English I explain to them that I have capsized, that everything is fine and that I am continuing on my way, but that I fear for the integrity of my mast if it has to happen again. With their more efficient means of communication, they relay my message to the CROSS, which through them asks for my name, the contact ashore and the number of crew members on board
The boat gets back on the road and resumes its run. Wave, gust, surf..
20:15 is the time of the weather broadcast at the SSB on frequency 1650 Hz. I very much hope to hear that the wind will drop, but that is not the case. The depression is shifting south, I'm going down with it. Force 8 announced for at least another 8 hours, then easing 5 to 6 and shifting eastward on Monday.
Dismasting!
Around 9pm, I try as best I can to rest under the cockpit to put as much weight as possible on the stern, still battered by the boat's swings. I'm being thrown to the ceiling again! New complete tour... Once again the boat comes back to its right side. Surprisingly everything seems calm to me, a glance at the electronic NKE screen which indicates 0 knots of wind, I must have lost my weather vane. I open the down hatch, the wind is still howling. It is dark. On my right I see a halo underwater: it's weird... I lost fluorescein? I look forward to see that the mast has broken 50 centimetres above the gooseneck. The glow I saw was the masthead light that illuminates the fish. It only lasted a few seconds.
Making the right decision
Everything goes very fast in my mind. I'm quickly analyzing the situation. The mast is upwind of my boat, it doesn't hit the hull. I have no rush to release him. I am out of VHF range of the semaphores, but I had spotted a cargo ship at the AIS before I went to rest. With the antenna in the water impossible to contact him. If I let him go away, I won't have anyone around to help me anymore. It is not expected that the wind and sea will calm down immediately. This will complicate the implementation of a potential makeshift rigging. Especially since once the gale has passed, the wind must shift to the East. Right on my way. It will then be necessary to reach the coast under jury rigging. My situation is not glorious.
Initiate rescue and secure the boat
I decide to activate my two emergency beacons. The EPIRB of the boat and my PLB so that we can't think of an accidental release. I also activate the SART beacon (personal man overboard AIS beacon) to help position the boat and finally I send one of my parachute rockets. I have the impression that the cargo ship has diverted. Unless it was my boat that swung in the waves. It's hard to find your way around at night.
Then I work to secure the boat. I get the halyards from the mast, finish lowering what's left of the mainsail and iron it with the boom. With the cable cutter clamp, I try to shear the shrouds to free the mast. I had heard about the ineffectiveness of this tool, but it turns out that it is even more useless than I imagined... it is well worth walking around with such cumbersome security equipment to make it ineffective. I unscrew the soft rigging screws and cut the guy wires tightened with a hacksaw. Fearfully more efficient.
I dismantle the boom and the furled sail on it to bring it inside after removing the vang and reefing bumps. I also pull in the solent and collect all the sheets that could go into the water if I have to evacuate the boat. I am well aware that if someone comes to my aid, it is very likely that they will ask me to abandon the ship and I want to give myself every chance to be able to recover it in good condition.
Like a noise in the sky
At 11:30 p. m. I hear the emergency VHF transmitting. "Solo Sailor Novintis, this is the Navy, we'll be in the area within one minute." I look around me: no boat. But a whirr makes me look up, a helicopter comes over me. I throw my beacons inside, get my waterproof bag that I had prepared and close the cabin. They send me a sandbag connected to a rope that will allow me to pull the rescuer aboard the boat. Its landing is a little sporty on the boat which hunts several meters pushed by the breakers.
No time to get soft
As soon as I get on board, he harnesses me:"Whatever happens, you keep your hands between your legs". The takeoff was violent, I was torn from my boat and saw it move away under my feet. It is illuminated by the huge projector of the Cayman helicopter. Without a mast, rolled by the waves. I see with a little height the state of the sea, the scum of the waves all around. A few seconds that seemed too short to me to say goodbye to my Mini, and I was pulled inside the camera. I'm being pointed to a folding seat. I'm taking a seat. My seat neighbour scribbles a few lines on a piece of paper, the noise prevents all oral communication. "I am a doctor. Name, first name, age, address, what happened? Medical problem? We're going to the White Cavalry in Brest."
30 minutes later we land at Brest University Hospital. I am cared for by the medical team that carries out routine checks: blood pressure, pulse rate, blood sugar... Everything is fine, I am free to go out.
A golden insurance
The next day - on a Sunday! - i contacted my insurer. During the day, he found a solution to repatriate the boat in the person of Adrien Hardy who sailed that very evening on board a sailboat. I am really reassured to know that a Figarist and former minist is going to help my boat, I know that he will be able to take care of it during the towing. 3 days later, my boat is docked in Lorient. Without his mast and with traces on his hull of an encounter with another boat (a fisherman?). I'll be able to change the mast, rearm it and go back to sea. Hoping for better weather conditions...
Thanks to all of you
During this time, I had the chance to be very well surrounded and supported. First by the CROSS who notified my partner and coordinated everything until the ship was taken over. Then by my insurer and more particularly Andréa who spent her Sunday organizing the rescue of the ship. Finally by my partner who had to endure the pressure of not being able to contact me, but who organized my care in Brest. A big thank you to all these people and to all those who have given me their support.
