New book: How Boris Herrmann experienced the first days of the Vendée Globe 2024
On average, I cover the distance from Hamburg to Mannheim every day when travelling around the world. If you start this journey by car, there are countless opportunities to get lost, take a wrong turn or get stuck in roadworks. If two Golfs set off from Hamburg at the same time, they may drive through different federal states and only arrive in Mannheim hours apart. It's the choice of route that makes the difference. It is often a matter of luck whether you pass the Frankfurt motorway junction before the big accident or afterwards.
This is exactly how ocean racing works. From the outside, a race at sea is always a straight line. In reality, however, wind strength, wind direction, currents and the height, direction and length of the waves determine our course like invisible roads. Even on the water, you can get hopelessly lost, misjudge developments or simply be unlucky. Our traffic jam is the calm, our fast lane is foiling.
That is also interesting:
I was a long way from the fast lane in the hours after the start. It was depressing to see how competitors who had just been drifting alongside me within shouting distance were pushed into a better position by a breeze. It wasn't long before I could only see them on the computer screen. They had caught a green wave while I was stuck in the wrong lane.
The first sunset at sea, the smell of the sea, the dynamics of this marvellous boat - that usually puts me on a high. Not this time. When you're the last one sailing behind the field, you have little sense of beauty. On Tuesday night, I sailed round the outside of the restricted area off Cape Finisterre as planned. Now, as hoped, we can finally show off our advantages in strong wind conditions. Whilst we are sailing south along the coast of Portugal, we are picking up one boat after another. By Wednesday, we were in fifth place.
Rock 'n' roll on the Atlantic
North Atlantic, 12 November 2024
I'm now on my third day at sea and haven't slept at all. I haven't allowed myself to do more than doze, after all I want to catch up. When I crank the grinder, I clearly realise how tired I am. At the same time, I can feel how the "Malizia-Seaexplorer" and I are becoming more and more one. My sea legs are growing. My body instinctively knows where to go. Even when the waves are rough, I feel just as safe on board as I do in my kitchen at home.
On the way to Madeira it blows at 26 knots, sometimes even more. Rock 'n' roll conditions. We bounce over the huge waves. The foil lifts the bow three or four metres high. The position of the "Malizia-Seaexplorer" is reminiscent of an aeroplane taking off, its nose wheel already hovering in the air while the rear landing gear is still rolling over the runway. From the cockpit, you can only see the surface of the water 300 metres away; everything in front of it remains in the blind spot. We hover over the waves in a safe balance. A sublime feeling. I try to soak up the moment and store it on my hard drive.
When I daydream about the fascination of Imoca sailing on land, it is precisely these intense moments that I play on my inner cinema screen. Only very rarely, when we are chasing down a big wave at full speed and the next wave crest builds up steeply in front of the bow, does the boat plunge into this wall of water. The foredeck of the "Malizia-Seaexplorer" has more volume and her underwater hull is rounder than that of the other yachts in the race. This has earned her the nickname "SUV" or "bus".
More curves for the underwater hull
The previous boat that I raced in the Vendée Globe 2020 was narrower, had a more pointed bow and a flat underwater hull. Back then, the "Malizia" kept crashing into the waves so brutally that I got scared. That's why I looked for a solution for the next boat to soften the blows. A thicker bow has more buoyancy and doesn't dive in as deep. At the same time, the curve in the underwater hull pushes the bow back to the surface more quickly.
So this design is not about top speed. The narrower Imocas may even be a tad faster. But we don't crash into the waves as often, and when it does happen, we are not slowed down so brutally. Those who brake less often are faster in the end.
During the queen's stage in the southern oceans, perfect conditions for this boat design prevailed on many days: steady winds of over twenty knots from the beam, i.e. from diagonally behind, drove huge, long waves in front of them. The "Malizia-Seaexplorer" won the leg, although we had to make up almost 500 nautical miles due to a repair on the mast.
However, the hoped-for speed advantage was not the main reason for my design experiment. Stability and safety were more important to me. When an eight-tonne yacht is slowed down from 75 kilometres per hour to under 20, enormous forces occur, especially in the rig. The sails push the mast forwards with a power of up to 3,000 hp, while the waves brake the ship with brute force. With more volume in the bow and a rounder underwater hull, the number of shock loads can be reduced and their intensity softened. This protects the material.
The hull and the most important structural parts of the "Malizia-Seaexplorer" are made of carbon fibre-reinforced plastic. This is light and stable at the same time. Nevertheless, the racing yachts are exposed to enormous forces. Just like us sailors. The carbon fibre shell of my cockpit chair is installed on a shock absorber that cushions the hardest impacts. Every few seconds, a jet of water shoots against the massive cabin windows. It's like being inside a washing machine. The noise is unbearable without headphones.
Ocean sailing is an indoor sport
Nevertheless, the cabin in my SUV is a comparatively cosy home that will remain my abode for most of the coming weeks. Sunbathing on deck, reading a book or leaning against the mast with a cappuccino in my hand and gazing into the infinite distance will only rarely be possible. For my taste, the reality of the world's toughest race has far too little in common with such romantic notions of sailing on the ocean. We are usually many hundreds of miles away from the nearest building.
Nevertheless, ocean sailing is strictly speaking an indoor sport. In the earlier Imoca generations, the cockpit was usually largely open towards the stern, like a garage with an open door. Only a canvas wall provided makeshift protection from the cold. In the latest designs, the cockpit is integrated into the cabin and completely enclosed. It is an all-round stable dry cell. All halyards, all sheets, all spreaders are diverted into the cabin and operated here with a coffee grinder.
I perceive the world outside mainly through the images captured by the four external cameras. I only unzip the cabin entrance and leave the warmest place there is on the North Atlantic in November to change sails or for regular inspections. 99 per cent of the time, the "Malizia-Seaexplorer" is not steered by me, but by a highly complex self-steering system. At best, I could sail the boat as fast as the computer for two hours, then my concentration would wane. The computer's would not.
I learn via WhatsApp that Nicolas Lunven has broken the 24-hour record for monohulls. Until now, the "Malizia-Seaexplorer" has held this record. We beat the record in the Ocean Race 2022. When our achievement was confirmed by the race committee, we celebrated wildly on board. This feeling of happiness is one of my favourite sailing experiences. Nico was still part of the "Malizia" crew and on board at the time. I'm happy for him and send him a congratulations via WhatsApp. From a purely sporting point of view, his record is perhaps even more valuable than ours because he sailed it alone. But celebrating alone isn't much fun. Nico is not only a great sailor, he's also brilliant at choosing routes. He sailed an incredible 546.60 nautical miles or 1,012.30 kilometres in 24 hours with his Holcim-PRB.
An unusual wind hole
North Atlantic, 15 November 2024
On the screen in front of me, I can see that my speed keeps exceeding the thirty-knot mark. The yacht is going great, the display on the screen alternates between green and yellow. That means I'm faster or just as fast as the leaders. As the field leaves the Canary Islands on the port side today, I have fought my way up to third place.
When I crawl out of my bunk after a short nap, I no longer have to put on thick oilskins. I won't need it for the next two weeks. Finally sunshine, finally warmth. Sailing in the leading group is a great feeling. I feel like I belong in this company.
Unfortunately, the good position is only a psychological advantage. I'm afraid that could change quickly, because there is an extensive area of light wind in front of the field. The leading boats will reach it earlier and get stuck in it, while those at the back will rush in with the good "old" wind.
The field pushes together. It's the same situation as a regatta on a quarry pond. The location and extent of the slack water are unusual. We are at the height of West Africa. The north-east trade wind should start here soon and drive us powerfully across the Atlantic. It is one of the most reliable wind systems on the ocean and has been used since Columbus to cross the Atlantic from east to west. But someone seems to have switched off the wind.
I have just streamed a video in which Irishman Marcus Hutchinson, one of the most profound experts on the Vendée Globe, was interviewed. "We've never seen a wind hole this big in the North Atlantic that lasts this long," explains Hutchinson. Whether this is just a random abnormality in the weather or a sign of climate change can only be determined if such interruptions in the trade winds occur more frequently in future. And for that we need the relevant data.
After a week at sea, I fetch a drifter buoy from the cabin to throw it into the sea at the agreed position. Its main purpose is to measure atmospheric pressure, which is just as important for weather forecasts as it is for long-term observations of climate change. The high-tech device therefore transmits measured values that we sailors need to choose our route. Satellites only provide optical data on clouds, precipitation, wind, waves and now also on changes in plankton vegetation. They do not measure air pressure. However, this information is essential for a complete picture.
There are countless measuring stations on land. On the ocean, you need these special buoys. There are currently around 1,400 drifters floating in the world's oceans, 230 of them in the North Atlantic. I am no longer the only participant in the Vendée Globe to be towing one of these 22-kilo buoys on board. This time, seven more drifter buoys will be deployed by my competitors at locations previously determined by scientists.
The collected data is sent to the World Meteorological Organisation (WMO). The batteries of the measuring buoys last up to four years, so they will be doing their job for science until the next Vendée Globe. Most of them will be washed ashore at some point, sent back to the WMO, refurbished and then relaunched.
Before I throw the buoy over the stern into the wake, I scribble a message on it in sharpie: "There is no Planet B - Malizia - Climate Action Now". Maybe someone will find it and send us a message.
The book: "The world under my boat"
Together with co-author Walter Wüllenweber, professional sailor Boris Herrmann describes in his book "The World Beneath My Boat" how he discovered his two professions for himself and how they have determined his life ever since. For the first time, he provides insights into a fascinating project on which he is working in close co-operation with marine research institutes.
