That race was everything I could have hoped for – and more. A true adventure. Crossing an ocean has been on my bucket list for years, the next big challenge. I’m proud and genuinely happy to have completed it. It demanded everything: mental resilience, physical endurance, and a willingness to push beyond limits. And now, I have new limits.

The Build-Up in Concarneau

The race began in Concarneau with a busy week in the race village: five days of media, interviews, safety checks, a prologue race (cancelled), a pro-am race (cancelled), weather and safety briefings. It was hectic, and very French—a format unfamiliar to us Brits—but it’s clear why professional offshore racing works so well in France. There’s community engagement, local impact, and support from partners. It’s more than a race; it’s an event. Luckily, to help with all the French, final boat jobs, all round supporter, coach and friend, we had David. If someone could make our lives easier before a big challenge, it would be him.

The Start

Before setting off on a 4000-mile ocean crossing, we had to complete a short inshore course right into Concarneau’s harbour. Great for spectators—not great for maintaining a tidy boat!

I won’t take you through every day, every meal, or every tack across the 20 days, but I want to share the defining moments. The ones that shaped our mindset, affected performance, and steered our decisions.

A Tough First Night

The first night brought a personal wind hole—our wind speed matched the boat speed of everyone else. From that moment, we were fighting to get back into the race. We pushed hard on boat speed, and as a result, sacrificed sleep. Our first big lesson: you can’t make good decisions on no sleep. And in this fleet, you don’t gain miles quickly through sheer speed. It’s about knowing when—and how—to push.

We tried to make bold gains by gambling on the weather systems. In hindsight, it was the wrong move. Our instincts were right about where to go, but we misjudged the timing. We should have adapted to the system moving ahead of us.

The Pay-Off of Preparation

All those months of prep paid off. The Figaro is notoriously wet; last year, we had leaking hatches, fittings, and a daily routine of bailing out water. But thanks to resealing everything and adding a companionway cover, water ingress was minimal—just the drip from our offshore gear. A massive quality-of-life win on such a small space for 20 days.

Better still, there wasn’t a single thing we wished we’d brought with us. We were ready.

Big Bertha and Bigger Lessons

Just a week before the race, we got a new kite—well, new to us. We named her Big Bertha: an A2 spinnaker made with extra-thick cloth so it could handle stronger winds. She taught us another crucial lesson: sail choice matters. We originally thought Bertha would perform well up to 18 knots, but we soon realised she was about 5% slower than our lighter A2 under that threshold. We revised our crossover point to 20 knots to account for lulls and maximise performance.

Rounding Palma: The Mental Reset

Rounding La Palma marked our first major mental breakthrough. Up until then, we’d been chasing the fleet—frustrating, especially when others were benefitting from more favourable systems. But hitting a physical mark in the race helped us reset. We decided to treat it as Day One. We learned from, but mentally let go of, the first seven days. We focused on sleep, boat speed, and strategic navigation toward the Azores High, aiming to enter at the right angle—enough wind bend without getting sucked into its calm core.

Atlantic Troubles

Unfortunately, the problems didn’t stop. We struggled to tune the autopilot in the Atlantic swell. As waves grew, the apparent wind angle changed dramatically while surfing, confusing the autopilot. It overcorrected, often sending us into near-gybes or broaches. We couldn’t trust it to steer, meaning even less sleep—a dangerous cycle for decision-making.

Other challenges included an oil drum snagged on the keel (an hour’s job to remove), more autopilot troubleshooting, losing a spinnaker sheet, and navigation dilemmas. And then came one of the hardest nights of the race.

Survival Mode

With winds of 30–35 knots and the small kite up, the boat was absolutely flying. Vibrating, humming—right on the edge. But the autopilot couldn’t cope. We hand-steered in 30-minute shifts for six exhausting hours. Eventually, we made the tough call to stop racing for a few hours and sleep. Safety first. Ollie managed two solid hours; I grabbed 15-minute power naps while keeping an eye on the boat.

Later, we tried the Code Zero to regain speed, but it ended in disaster—a broach shredded the sail. Another tough recovery job.

Final Push

A few hours later, we were back on course and charging toward St Barts. After nearly a week on starboard, we gybed—finally. But challenges weren’t over. We encountered vast islands of sargassum seaweed, wrapping around the keel and rudders. The only reliable removal tactic? A deliberate broach. (Check out our Instagram for that!)

We also dodged terrifying storm cells, one of which had reported winds of 60 knots. Our weather files couldn’t pinpoint its position, and satellite imagery was down. At one point, the wind instruments read zero—we were in the eye. Lightning took out our instruments briefly, but thankfully a quick reset revived them.

The Emotional Finish

At last, the weather turned in our favour. After 14 days of setbacks, we had wind, while the fleet ahead sat in a lull. It was our moment. The emotional pressure was immense. So close, yet still wondering—would we catch up? Would anyone respect our finish?

After 19 grueling days, we sailed the final miles into St Barts. We expected an empty dock. Instead, over 200 people were waiting—cheering, sounding horns, lighting red flares. We heard a squeal—that unmistakable mum squeal—and saw our biggest supporters, friends, fellow sailors. People who didn’t even speak our language, all there to welcome us.

We were overwhelmed. I was speechless—and that doesn’t happen often.

What We Learned

We finished less than 24 hours behind the lead boat. In the last edition of this race, there was a three-day gap between first and last. We weren’t last, and we didn’t break. Two boats retired. To place, you have to finish—and we did.

This race had three goals for me:
To improve. To complete the challenge. To inspire.
I know I’ve done the first two, and I truly hope I’ve achieved the third.

What’s Next?

Now it’s time to go solo. More learning, more pushing, more racing. The next major competition: La Solitaire du Figaro Paprec 2025. But first, I’ve got to qualify.

Let the next chapter begin