It was with his Breton father and their first boat, an Ovni 25, that Mathieu was introduced to sailing. Self-taught for navigation, he studied aeronautical engineering in Montpelier. That's where he started to race. In 2008, he launched himself into ocean racing. And in 2019, in the Transat Jacques Vabre, where he finishes 14th Class 40 and 1st Vintage.
The view
What comes to mind is a souvenir from the convoy. And it's not recent. But it's an image that struck me. It was my third ocean race on a mini 6.50. It was the Hexis Cup Le Grand 8 - Solitaire, a 300 mile loop, the start and finish of which took place in La Grande-Motte, in the Hérault. It took us as far as the Spanish border. On the way back, as we passed Frioul, where there was a strong Mistral wind, I learned that the race had stopped... Rather than heading back, I preferred to continue towards La Grande-Motte to train, in the face of this very strong wind. I didn't regret it... The evening came when I was off Port-Camargue. Then the wind died down. Just enough for me to pull out my gennaker. The light and the colours were magnificent then. In the distance, the sun, very slowly, plunged more and more into the sea. The boat was sailing on its own on clear orange water. I was making six or seven knots, effortlessly. The bowsprit, the rope that holds the bowsprit down to hoist the spinnaker, was quietly slicing through the water. Sometimes the boat would be hit lightly by waves. I love these moments of complete serenity. I'm also very happy this time, as I'd won the race!
The touch
The sails, especially the spinnaker: that's what immediately comes to mind. When you take them out of their bags, you take them in your hands, and you feel a kind of crunchy cloth under your fingers. As we know they're fragile, we handle them with care, of course. Especially when they're new. But it's also important to touch them to assess their condition, to find possible holes for example. Lowering a sail is therefore an operation that requires you to concentrate on that sense as well. Another object that I touch gently: the tiller of course! These sensations can change a lot throughout a race. For example, when you go through the Doldrums, that very disturbed zone of inter-tropical convergence, where the trade winds can block you for a long time around the equator, and really tire you out. It rains so much that it's hard to dry out: your hands become as if they're wrinkled and weaken. And then, the touch has nothing to do with normal!
Hearing
It's the opposite of the noise I'm about to tell you about. The silence... The silence after dismasting. It's 2014, and I'm sailing with my father in a mini 6.50. We're downwind under spinnaker. The wind is 20 to 35 knots and we are making 15 to 17 knots. It's going fast and the ambient noise made by the boat is corresponding. Strong! All of a sudden, as I'm trying to get down, the mast falls. And then, nothing... I mean, the noise level. No more noise. The wind certainly still makes noise. But nothing from the rigging, the deck, the hull... And, this impression of silence, compared to the moment before, suddenly, I still remember it... This notion of noise generated by a boat is very interesting for skippers. Each boat has its own rigging, its own hull, and therefore its own behaviour in front of the elements... its sound mechanics! When I change yacht, I discover a new one, I get used to it, I spot the usual noises, to better detect by ear those which are not... When I switched to Class 40, I have apprehended new noises linked to the vibration of the rigging under tension of this type of boat. I also heard the shocks, which were much louder than on my previous boat, of the hull against the water when it hits. And, I confess, I'm not happy with this kind of sound: in 2011, when I sank because of a UFO - an unidentified floating object! -of course I heard a similar sound. Since then, I have been at least attentive to these sound shocks... and I often wonder if it wasn't a UFO that hit me again!
Taste
I remember my first freeze-dried dish very well! It was in 2008, I was 20 years old: my first race on a mini 6.50, as a team mate, off Marseille. I was on a little cloud. So happy to be there, quite simply. With my team-mate, we decided to make ourselves something to eat. On the menu: freeze-dried shepherd's pie. Well, well... Well, today it's much better freeze-dried, but at the time we were at the beginning of this technique and... Anyway, I didn't think it was very good, I must say. Add to that the fact that my team-mate hadn't put in enough water that day, and you can guess how I looked. In the end, we found ourselves swallowing powder, like sand, which filled our mouths, dried it out and almost suffocated us! Now, when I prepare a dish of this type, I can tell you that I stir with strength and conviction, and that I don't hesitate to add water as soon as the need arises. In freeze-dried dishes, I prefer rice pilaf: when I open the bag, this good smell delights my taste buds in advance... But it is the sterilized dishes, which have developed a lot since then, that I use the most: they can be very good, like the rougaille sausage, a tasty dish from Reunion Island. At one point, I remember it well, I was a fan of Nutella and chestnut cream pancakes... not both at the same time! I used to take some with me in plastic bags and spread them on the bread at my leisure. But what I prefer today is salty: sausage, chips, a small glass of beer if it's not too hot, or Coke ... it makes me an ideal aperitif during the race!
The sense of smell
During the Mini-Fastnet, a double-handed race in 6.50 which offers a loop Douarnenez - Fastnet Lighthouse (Ireland) - Douarnenez, we were in the top two or three crews. Satisfaction therefore, all the more so as the weather conditions were good. But in the middle of the night, the wind dropped. We then hesitated to get closer to the English coast, Land's End in British Cornwall to get a night breeze. Up to us, indeed, came a smell of cow, of land, quite strong. But, strangely enough, it didn't leave us with as frank and clean an impression... as we would have liked. But we decided to go to the coast. But, thirty minutes later, as if to prove us right, we didn't smell anything at all! It was a bad sign. We agreed then that there was no point in staying there. We distanced ourselves from the other competitors, who were never able to take advantage of this long-awaited breeze, which in the end was non-existent. This sensitivity to the movement of air masses that my teammate, a paraglider pilot, and I, a glider fan, helped us a lot!
What about fear?
Fear has an interest in racing: it represents a safeguard as to the limits not to be exceeded. I think we've all been afraid of breaking a sail, hitting a UFO, going through a huge depression... But it's this fear that forces us, when danger is present, to put in place a protective approach, an adapted armament for the boat, which pushes us to anticipate by imagining solutions. Without this fear, we wouldn't be able to achieve all that, I'm convinced. It's what enables us to brave the danger! It's constructive from my point of view. Besides, I think we quickly convert it into excitement, adrenaline.
I remember, on my return from the Transat Jacques Vabre 2019, having experienced a moment like that. It was on 22nd December, the wind was already reaching 55 knots, and we were told it was forcing it up to 65 knots. We're not offshore, which would probably have been less of a problem for us. We are in sight of Barcelona, where we have to stop over. So I wonder how we're going to manage to get the sails down safely in these weather conditions, so close to the port, and in an area where so many cargo ships are sailing. As the mainsail is resisting, I end up hanging from the ropes... And there, the wind, the environment, my position, combined... and I was scared! When I sank, it was different: I wasn't really scared, or wasn't it the same fear? I was very calm, as if I was preparing myself psychologically for... It was a UFO, an unidentified floating object, that got the better of my boat. I sank... and I've been at the bottom of the water for ten hours on the remains of my boat. A freighter is coming, escorting me out of the waves. Eventually, I get on the boat that's going to take me on the race. There, in spite of the exhaustion, I remain on edge, recounting the manoeuvres, the stress, everything that has happened to me... I experience a sort of ultimate adrenaline rush. Then I'm put in the Spartan cabin where I fall asleep. Three or four hours later, not enough to rest, of course, I wake up. And that's when I felt this kind of rage that physically tetanized me, brought me to tears. I wasn't depressed, no; I didn't collapse, either. I was just, I think, in a black anger... against myself! It was at that moment, I think the "all is lost" really jumped out at me. I took into account, at that moment, the fact that I had failed. I'll always remember that unimaginable quarter of an hour during which I had that very strange feeling of seeing someone else acting, almost living independently of me in that cabin. So mysterious that explaining it to you seems very complicated! I haven't felt that way since..
