Pip, how are you four days after breaking the mast?
It really is a mishmash of emotions. After it happened, I was just devastated. That might even be too weak a word. But there's just this huge feeling of total grief. A huge loss, such a huge loss! And it came so quickly, it happened so immediately, there was no preparation for it. A split second and it's all over. Brutal!
How did you deal with it?
Firstly, I switched to survival mode. That went by itself. I cut the sail and mast free with a saw and set up an emergency rig. I can't believe how quickly that went: Three hours and I was sailing again. During this time, I was almost satisfied that I had made it, that I was clear enough to do what I needed to do. I put all my feelings aside and did what I had to do. I just carried on working. It was only afterwards that I was depressed. For a day, I struggled with my loss, with feelings of guilt.
But that was in no way your fault!
No, but it wasn't just me who worked so hard on this whole project to get it off the ground. There are also my sponsors, my team, we had a crowdfunding campaign. The inside of my boat is covered with the names of the individual backers. And I feel very responsible to them. I know it wasn't my fault. But I just didn't finish the race. And I'm sad that I let everyone down.
You know, I've had many, many setbacks in the course of my career. But I always got back up and kept going. And in those 24 hours after I set the emergency rig, I really didn't know if I would be able to do it again because I felt so bad.
But the good thing about being stuck out here and sailing slowly, really slowly, is that I have time for myself to process what I feel, what I want. Throughout my sailing career - from the Ostar and Minitransat, the Class 40 to the Imoca class - I've always asked myself when I've achieved something: do I have the will and the ability to keep going? And every time there was this fire in me, this urge to keep getting better, again and again. And now, after 24 hours of complete grief, I think I can feel that fire again! But I don't think it will ever not hurt. (gasps for air)
Are you still having flashbacks from the moment the mast broke or are you now completely focussed on the present and the future?
The memory keeps coming back to me. I didn't sleep for 36 hours after losing the rig because I still had a lot of adrenaline in me. And when I went to sleep, waking up for the first time was really awful: at first, everything seems familiar, as if nothing had happened. And you wish it was like that. But of course it's not. And yes, I have these setbacks. Every time I look at the tracker or check the weather, I think: where would I have been? It comes in waves. You can't give in to it. But of course it's there.
How do you block it out before it becomes too powerful?
Fortunately, I have other things to keep me busy. At the moment I'm thinking about optimising my emergency rig. And I'm trying to organise as much as possible for my arrival in Melbourne. It's not so easy because Medallia has cancelled its sponsorship. So I have to think about how I can get my boat back and how we can find sponsors for the future.
You're already in the future. Don't you want to take a deep breath, catch up on sleep and recharge your batteries?
What has characterised me is that I have always had my own team. And that's because I had no other choice. Nobody would ever offer me the role of skipper in another team. So I had to create my own opportunities. And what I've realised along the way is: I work harder than anyone else. If I want to achieve something, my way is to roll up my sleeves and work and work and work. I will do that again. I know I want to do another Vendée Globe. This one is unfinished.
And another thing: it's not easy to get projects like this off the ground in the UK. We don't have the infrastructure or the culture that Brittany has. But we have created something on a small scale that could grow into something bigger and encourage other people to realise projects in England. And I don't want to give that up either. I have a feeling that if I stop now, we'll lose that momentum too. I guess I suppress my sadness by thinking about the future.
You've proved to the world that you're resilient and don't give up easily, that's for sure. And who knows what will come of this incident, of your adventure with the "Slow Boat"?
Oh, I don't think I'm doing anything special right now...
But yes! And the whole world is taking notice. The way you communicate - in the best as well as the most difficult moments - is unrivalled.
Well, anyone would have put up an outrigger to set a storm jib. I'm now sailing very slowly towards Australia. There's nothing special about it.
Well, maybe not in the technical sense. But how well you are taking your fans with you, even now, is exemplary! The race may be over, but you're still letting us share in your efforts to get back to land. Do you actually have enough diesel on board to keep the batteries topped up?
Yes, don't worry. We can talk for hours.... (laughs). I have enough fuel, my water maker is running, there's enough to eat, I have two books, Starlink and a Netflix account...
Technically, you're still 23rd in the fleet, just not quite on course and a little slower than before....
(Giggles)
Can you tell us how it all happened, when it happened and how you experienced the moment the mast broke?
It was at night. I was sitting in my cockpit chair to leeward. The breeze was coming from diagonally astern. I was thinking about reducing the sail area - I was on J0 and full main and in the area for the J2 (working jib) and for the first reef in the main. I was waiting for the right time. And suddenly the boat accelerated and finally flew over the crest of a wave. The sound on landing was different, not as hard as usual. And the mast simply collapsed.
Have you already looked for possible causes? Has the bulkhead that you had to laminate a few days ago broken again?
No. I don't think we'll ever know what caused the rig to collapse. In my opinion it was a fatigue of the carbon fibre profile, not the fittings or the standing rigging. The mast was already gone when I was on deck. So it's really hard to say!
What was the sea state like at that time?
Not bad at all. The waves were only two to two and a half metres high.
Were you worried about the integrity of the hull?
At first, yes. Because at first part of the rig was hanging over the starboard side and I could hear it crunching against the top of the boat. I just took a saw and cut it all off as quickly as I could. The boom was on deck, so I first sawed through all the reefing lines and strops to save it, then the shrouds. Then I saved the leeward deck spreader, which became my emergency rig. I'm glad I was able to save the boom because it's quite an expensive piece; it's a little damaged at the luff fitting but otherwise intact.
Do you feel reasonably safe now and do you have everything under control?
Yes, I'm doing well, really! The only difficulty is that I'm struggling with the wind and waves to make any progress. Yesterday I wasn't able to hold my position in an area of low pressure that passed over me; that's when I got shifted to the south-east. But now the wind has shifted and I'm being pushed towards Melbourne. I've studied the weather over the long term and it doesn't look too bad. I'm going to make a second headsail with more surface area, then I should be able to sail up to about 75 degrees to the true wind if necessary and also be a bit faster.
How do you pass the time?
I've told myself that I'll have a project every day to keep me busy. I'll do inventory or clean the boat, trim the sails, pimp the rig, and when the wind dies down, I even want to take down the emergency mast to make sure it doesn't damage the deck. There's a lot to do.
What did you learn on your second Vendée Globe before the rig came from above?
I have learnt so much! I only switched to the new foils a year and a half ago and it's a big change in how you sail. I'd only had my racing sails for three months; the previous set wasn't designed for the big foils. I did go out to train properly, but I was still at the beginning of the learning curve. I also always have problems at the start of a race. I somehow lose my confidence. I need to sail so that I can believe in my ability to sail. And that's particularly difficult in the Vendée Globe because you can't go out to sea three weeks before the start. That's why I struggled a bit in the early stages of the race. For example, I started with my A2 (the large asymmetric spinnaker) and sailed really well, but then caught up with it far too early. I just didn't feel confident enough to leave it up. And I regretted that. That was the first lesson I learnt, namely that I approach things with an "I can do it" attitude.
But then I was very pleased with how I came back in the North Atlantic, with the right sails, with a course that was right for me and the boat.
I learnt the most in the Indian Ocean, where we had to pass a kind of baptism of fire. There is no practice, no training to understand what it might be like. I spoke to other skippers who had already experienced the Indian Ocean during The Ocean Race. And they all said how brutal it was this time. It depends which group you're in, but for me and Romain (Attanasio) and Benjamin (Dutreux) there was just no respite. It was just one low pressure area after another. There was no time off, nothing in between. We just got kicked and kicked and kicked. Learning to deal with that was a big thing for me.
And of course there is a difficulty with these boats with the big foils: at some point you have to back off, but then it's really difficult to slow down adequately. Sometimes it's impossible to find the right balance. You're either moving at 50 per cent of your theoretical potential, which is too slow, or 150 per cent - nothing in between.
Is the fluctuation really that extreme?
Yes, even if you do all the things you should do, reduce the sail area, retract the foils, you can hardly slow the boat down. I remember a moment when I had pulled the foils in to 60 per cent and made my sail plan conservative, and I was still going 33, 34 knots! Then you think: What else do I need to do? What is my next step? Should I reef even more, retract the jib completely?
And then you do that and suddenly you're only logging 15 knots. Of course, that doesn't feel right either, because you're in a race. So I've learnt a lot about the subtle differences that make it more bearable.
Were you able to enjoy foiling at all in these extreme conditions?
I also got to know the other side. I've learnt when I don't need to hold back. There are times, especially in flat seas off a front, when you can just let the boat off the line. If you have the confidence to do that, the gains are astronomical. That's the best feeling: when you realise that you're travelling at the same speed as the weather system, the front simply won't catch up with you and you can just keep on foiling.
I think I'm still in the top 10 skippers in terms of top speed over 30 minutes, with an average of 28 knots. On average! 28 knots!!! (chuckles in disbelief). Unbelievable!!! And if you look at the boats around me, they're all the latest generation Imocas. So I must have learnt how to do it!
That's probably a good part of my sadness - that it ended so soon. Because I knew that I was getting better and better. I really knew that. Yeah, well... (sighs)
Don't go too deep into that dark corner, Pip! It certainly hurts to have to let go, but only because there is so much that is positive.
That's right. I also topped my personal top speed with 39.6 knots. And not in the Solent or off Lorient, but in the deep south. When I take a step back, I think: That's crazy! I'm doing this thousands and thousands of miles away from land, all by myself.
What was it like when you were travelling at almost 40 knots - did you end up with a plug?
Ahh, I can't remember. It probably ended with a nosedive, yes. These exciting moments always end like that. (laughs)
So there really is something good in all this, isn't there?
Yes, of course! All of it. If it wasn't for that, I wouldn't do it. For me, there's something good in every second. Sure: it's hard. It's physically and mentally exhausting. These boats can sometimes scare you, they're stressful. But it's also an incredible experience. You have to compete as a human being, you have to use all your skills, you have to be proactive. And you're surrounded by this incredible energy the whole time. You're in the middle of the most spectacular nature. Apart from the mast breaking, I don't think I've ever been unhappy sailing.
In my opinion, the title of your first Vendée Globe four years ago could have been: "Being the best version of yourself". What would be an appropriate title for this race?
(thinking...) I guess for me it would be: "I needed it". I needed this race to validate the fact that I can be competitive - not just as an adventurer, but as a professional skipper. This campaign was always about stepping up and being taken seriously. I wanted to be good enough to be seen as a competitor. And that's what this race was for me: the sporting element really fuelled me. I was pleased with my performance....
Pip, this will be a very, very different Christmas for you. Christmas at sea, in the south, all alone, is always different. Do you think it will be even harder for you this time?
Well, I'm not a particularly Christmassy person anyway. And I was planning to spend the festive season alone anyway. So it won't be that much different. I've got a few presents with me, a note from my family in all my food bags. So I'll be super happy, I think. I'll be Skyping or Whatsapping with people. I'll be fine.
You'll be happily bobbing around at 2 knots...
I really hope that I can sail at 5 knots.
Have you thought about getting towed in or starting the engine?
No, I doubt I can do more than 3 knots under engine, so sailing with the emergency rig is just as efficient. One of the things I'm quite adamant about is that when I go out, I set myself up to look after myself. I know there's rescue if I need it, but the rest of the time I'm on my own. I think that's really important. I'm not in any danger and I'm perfectly capable of getting myself safely to shore. Besides, I don't have enough money to organise a tow. I don't need it. I just need time.
Do you already have plans for the time after your arrival?
Basically, I want to set up a six-year programme. To do that, we first have to get the boat back to the UK and get it back into racing condition. I had hoped to take part in The Ocean Race Europe, but I just don't see any way of doing it in time. So next year I'll be tackling the Fasnet Race, the Défi Azimut and the Transat Jacques Vabre. I will use this year to find a new sponsor to take us to the next stage. That would mean either building a new Imoca or buying a newer, existing boat to take part in the Vendée Globe 2028 and The Ocean Race 2030.
I would love to start a two-boat Imoca campaign from my base in Poole. I would love to mentor someone else and build on the incredible team I have. I think we sometimes focus a bit too much on the skippers. But it takes a whole team to pull something like this off. And I would like to build a base in England so that we can continue to grow and share our knowledge. That's my plan.
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