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After setting sail from Mindelo on January 1, Nicolas and Hateya headed west for Martinique. In this very intimate logbook, he tells us about these lonely hours and his state of mind during the second half of the voyage.
Rants
january 11, 2024 night again. Just enough wind to keep the boat moving. A gentle swell rocks me from right to left, still with the sound of water. My mind wanders. My body feels weightless; I can feel the foam of my mattress, but no longer the weight of my body. Am I in the water? On the water? I feel with the water, with the sea.
I let myself go into a sweet dream. Then thunder! I wake up. Where am I? There was no storm forecast. Thunder again. It's the sails and spinnaker poles rattling, because there's not enough wind. I get up, check everything's in order and go back to bed. But I can't get back to where I was in my dream...
Planning a typical day
january 12, 2024 i wake up. Still feeling like I'm in my dream, with the swell carrying me right, then left, then down, then up. It feels like the boat is going too fast.
I saw some clouds arrive just before dark. The swell is bigger. There's more wind noise. All these signs point to more capricious weather. But when I go out on deck, everything is calm. I'm checking the speed, but nothing abnormal. We're sailing at around 4 knots. I go back to bed.
As dawn breaks, I realize that I haven't changed course for 3 days, and neither has the wind, and the swell is still pushing me along. It's just great! As a result, my days look a bit like this typical schedule:
Wake up to the sun. I do the morning check. I check the wind and course, then install the portable solar panel. I turn off the navigation lights and go back to bed, depending on the quality of last night... In the morning, I write, then cook my big plaster cast. Today, it's lentils, carrots and eggs. I listen to music or podcasts while I digest and tinker with the boat. Today I'll be replacing the accessory belt on the engine, which gave out last night.
In the afternoon, it's rest, siesta, reflection, dance and physical exercise. In the late afternoon, I take the opportunity to take a dip in the sea or wash up with a glove. With the temperature dropping, I enjoy drying off in the sun, watching the sea and listening to music.
For dinner, it's rather salty snacks (I haven't eaten a square of chocolate since I left). I'm still listening to podcasts as the sun sets. We remember to fold the solar panel before a power check. I switch on the navigation lights and brush my teeth.
I put back my sleeping bag, which has been aired all day, and slip into it with pleasure. From my bench seat, I listen to the boat. It's often at this moment that there are changes in wind or swell. I go back out to make the final adjustments before trying to fall asleep.
Then an abnormal noise, a sort of alarm, wakes me up. I get up, look around: sail, wind, electricity. I take the opportunity to look at the stars. I've never seen so many! And there are plenty I don't know about, as we're much further south than in France... As for the moon, sometimes it's visible, sometimes it's hidden, but it doesn't make much difference to my navigation. This visit to the deck simply takes place several times a night, until morning, without the need for an alarm clock.
Engine tinkering
This afternoon, the belt was repaired. It broke because the pulleys were rusty. So I sanded them down and installed the new belt. I also took the opportunity to re-tension the water pump belt, which is now at maximum. To be changed when I get there! But at least the engine's running perfectly again.
I've just had a look and I'm halfway there. I've just spent 12 days at sea, and I think that's already a long time. How many days do I have left? Minimum 9 at my current speed of 4.5 knots. More if the wind drops... I might try reading again, but I don't want to put myself in front of a screen. In the meantime, I'm making myself a loaf of bread.
Diary of a day in the life of a deckchair
january 13, 2024 the night was calm and warm, with a small shower, but not enough to clean the boat or collect water. But that means I'm getting pretty close to the West Indies! Today it's over 30° inside. I'm sweating without doing anything, and there's not enough shade outside to stay in for long... Otherwise all's well.
january 14, 2024 quiet day on the Atlantic. Just passed a tanker this morning... The lack of action leads me to look at the various anchorages and ports in Martinique. There's plenty to do. Between swimming with turtles, exploring mangroves, going to islets, all with magnificent scenery... Good more " that "8 to 9 days of sailing.
january 15, 2024 i've changed course and am now heading straight for Martinique. Now I've got the swell and the wind coming more from the beam, so it's back to the washing machine in the boat. Last night, I lost the last of my eggs and a 5-litre canister spilled. And with an average speed of 3.7 knots last night, it's no joy. I've still got 770 miles to go, over a third of the way.
This morning, I set the mainsail. " Only now? "you may ask. And yes, I prefer to handle my 3 headsails, rather than my mainsail. The reason is simple: I can set my headsails without changing course. Whereas with my mainsail, which is also auric, I have to stop the boat, face the wind or the cape to be able to trim it... But last night's course change means I can't set several headsails. And as I saw last night, I'm not making any headway.
But now, under mainsail and genoa, I'm making over 5 knots, which is a decent speed for my pretty boat. I just hope the wind stays steady, as reducing my mainsail in the middle of the night with no bearings doesn't appeal to me at all...
Inside to withstand the heat
january 16, 2024 health-wise, everything's fine, my back doesn't hurt anymore. Was this backache due to the crossing? I feel in great shape. I'm eating less than ashore, but at the same time I'm doing a lot less physical activity than ashore, so it seems balanced to me. As for water, my urine is fine and there's no sign of dehydration. I haven't seen any other animals, but at the same time I'm more often inside the boat than outside, as it's too hot and less comfortable.
Now I can live with the rhythm of the rolling sea. Even if sometimes my food falls on the floor and I have to clean and re-cook... Sometimes it's more survival than life. I miss a lot of things: talking, sports, the little pleasures of everyday life... I couldn't be like Moitessier, staying at sea for 18 months; two weeks would have been enough.
In my head, I have lots of new projects, which require a good internet connection to know which ones are feasible and to be able to plan them. Among these new projects, I'd like to cross the United States to Quebec City, but by road, to meet people and see other landscapes. I think I've done enough sailing! I'd also like to celebrate my 40th birthday in France as I should at the end of August, so the schedule needs to be sorted out.
I love the sunset as much as the night with all the stars. This adventure feeds my need to experiment on my own, to put myself in unfamiliar situations and see what happens. I made sound recordings that are very special. You can hear heavy breathing, the flow of water over the hull, little squeaks, the wind, sails rattling, pots clattering and the occasional egg crashing to the ground! As far as smells go, it's pretty much zero, apart from my soon-to-be-ripe bananas!
How to manage the lazarette?
In terms of preparation, a boat is ready when you decide, because there could always be something to improve, but then you never leave. What I hadn't planned on was my change of diet in a year. I did my shopping in Santa Cruz de Tenerife a year ago, and if I had to do it all over again, I would have bought other things, more rice and potatoes for example. But it's so hard to know what you're going to want to eat, because at sea you don't have the same needs. I need heavy dishes here, because I need my mind to stay here. But on land, I prefer raw vegetables to be lighter.
For swimming, I have a harness attached to a lanyard hooked to the boat. I climb down the back ladder and let the boat carry me. The water is so beautiful and warm.
For nights, when the sun is fading on the horizon and the boat is in " night mode "I go to bed. When Hateya needs me, he gives me a sign. I have faith in my boat and in life.
I only conversed with the French people I met at the start of the transatlantic race, but since then: nobody. It has to be said that I hardly meet anyone, and the few human souls I do meet are working fishermen.
Encounter with tropical grains
january 17, 2024 : Rather a restless night. I'd seen that the wind was going to pick up during the night, but at dusk it eased off, so I thought it was a weather forecast error and didn't reduce my sails as much as I should have. The wind picked up nicely, forecast at 18-25 knots, and so did the swell. I was pretty shaken up, but it held, averaging almost 7 knots. I eased the mainsail to reduce the pull on the autopilot, but the helm was still very hard.
Then, an hour before sunrise, the pilot stalled for the first time, and we were hit by a huge tropical downpour. As soon as the shower was over, the pilot stalled a second time. What's it like when a pilot stalls?
This means that the boat goes where it wants, preferably where it moves the most, that I have to get out, put it back on course, reconnect the pilot and understand why it has done so, in this case there is too much sail in relation to the wind. This time, I decide to gear up and steer until the sun comes out. Then I finally decide to take 2 reefs in the mainsail, which halves its sail area, so I can reconfigure the helm to the pilot.
For this manoeuvre, I'm going to lean on the engine. I turn it on and do the maneuver in my head, because with this wind and swell it's going to be a bit sporty. Once I'm ready, I go for it. I put the engine in forward gear. I push the helm hard to luff the boat. I take up the mainsheet at the same time, and head into the wind. As expected, the genoa goes against the wind. I do the same with the tiller, and block it to leeward with a line. That's it, I'm on the cape. The boat remains more or less stable.
I slacken the mainsail so that it faces into the wind, and go to the foot of the mast. Alas, I realize that the spinnaker pole has blocked the second reef and it's impossible to move it in this configuration. So I decide to take down the whole mainsail, wrap it tightly around the boom, and get back on course.
I release the spinnaker pole, which has become useless in this configuration. I look at my speed, I'm still at 5.7 knots. I was right to lower the mainsail. I come in, dry off and go back to bed. I'm not enjoying this monkey business any more. I hear a big splash... and see a cubic meter of water enter the boat, I had forgotten to close the hood...
Only 4 days to go to the finish. I've made up my mind to sell the boat in April.
january 18, 2024 another night of wind and waves, a discontinuous night in which my mattress kept creaking back and forth. My mast light works again, so there's no need to monkey around at the top of the mast - in fact, I don't know if I'd have done it, too much risk for so little... At the end of the afternoon, I had a few showers. In today's rankings, I have less than 300 miles to go. Still averaging between 4.5 and 5 knots, my finish could well be on the 21st.
Onboard discomfort
january 19, 2024 one night in a wet bed. I had put my usual glass of water on top of my bed, and with the heeling, half of it spilled... Then it was the turn of one of my 5l water cans, which had held up so well up to that point! At least it helped clean up my salty floor!
Daylight arrives, but all's well. The wind and swell remain at our backs and we're making good progress. I've taken up chess again, which helps pass the time. I've got 260 miles to go, I can't wait. Only two days to go...
january 20, 2024 our brains are impressive, and to compensate for the fact that we're alone and lacking in human relationships, last night they gave me a dream where I was in a huge rock chic party, between a huge mansion filled with rooms of all sizes, secret passageways, spiral staircases and a garden as impressive as that of the Château de Versailles. People everywhere, friends, acquaintances, all in their finest attire. I wake up every now and then, not understanding where I am or which way the boat is going. I go back to sleep to dream better.
Then a noise wakes me from this dream: the spinnaker pole has come off its axis. I get up, put it back in place and go back to bed. I hear voices and footsteps on deck. I'm delirious, but I remember that I'm alone.
My main need when I first came up with the idea for this route that ends with this crossing, over 6 years ago, was to experience a solitude that I couldn't live with enough in my daily life. But in 6 years, my brain has found other subterfuges to fill this need. This summer, for example, I spent most of August alone on the road with my truck. So there's this huge gap between what I put in place 6 years ago and now. For my next projects, I'll try to better analyze my needs to make sure they correspond to those of the present.
I'd like to thank all the people who supported me during this crossing through my mother, I wasn't expecting that. I was very pleasantly surprised. I'm very happy that we were able to live this experience together. You've brought back a lot of good memories. I'm really lucky to have you!
In anticipation of the arrival
january 21, 2024 : That's how I plan my arrival. It's not the first time I've arrived at an anchorage at night. This time, I'm aiming for dusk. I've chosen the south of Anse Sainte-Anne in Martinique, as there's only 4 m of water in the sand over a long distance. In the south, there shouldn't be many people. I should arrive around 5 or 6 pm.
I'm going to lower my only sail, the genoa, 30 minutes before arriving, to leeward of the island. Then, protected from the swell, I'll start my engine, which will give me time to prepare my anchor. Once there, I'll choose a place to set up, preferably at the stern of the other boats. I'll pass by once to fix a point on my GPS and be sure of myself, to see where the wind is coming from and if there's any current.
Then I'll turn back into the wind, reducing speed until I come to a halt at the desired point. At this point, I'll throw on 10 m of chain, then slowly put the boat into reverse. Once the chain is taut, I'll add another 15 m. Then I'll go full throttle, still in reverse, and watch to see if the boat moves.
If it moves, meaning a bad hook-up, I'll start again. If the hook is good, I'll turn off the engine and dive down to see if everything's OK (I've got a dive light if the moon isn't enough, then I'll go to bed and send a little message to my loved ones)
An overnight arrival
january 22, 2024 the finish went according to plan, but at 4:30 a.m., with the rain to boot. I got behind hundreds of boats at anchor, something I've never seen before. A young gannet kept me company and reupholstered my cockpit. The night was very dark, the moon had set. I could only make out the headlights of the cars and the city lights in the distance. I could smell the earth. Now I collapse into my bunk. Nothing moves. I feel my muscles rest, I become cottony, I fall asleep instantly.
I woke up in the early hours of the morning, and it was bright, hot and humid. I feel like I've got little aches and pains all over my upper body, arms and hands. I hear the sound of my chain scraping. The wind gusts to 27 knots.
Well arrived in Martinique. I fucking did it! I crossed the Atlantic solo with Hateya. I don't really realize it. It would have taken me 21 days.
Stay tuned for the results of this transatlantic race...
