The Corsica Med was the race of endless transitions: days spent drifting downwind in 3–5 knots of breeze, fighting for every single meter gained with each faint puff of wind. It was as much a test of patience as of skill. But above all, it was a race where I truly found myself — alone in the middle of the sea. Without knowing where the others were, it became a mental game as much as a sailing one — and it pushed me beyond my limits, in the best possible way.
The start was fantastic: a downwind stretch to the offset mark, then upwind along the islands in the Bay of Marseille, chasing shifts and building breezes. I stayed close to the shore — just a few dozen meters from land — crossing paths with the Class40s and IRC boats that had started right after us.
The first night offered relatively simple conditions: steady 12–16 knots and a consistent rhythm. The routing suggested gybing along the exclusion zone — I tried, but as soon as I gybed, the wind dropped to 8 knots. So I changed my plan and stayed further offshore, betting on stronger breeze from the Corsican coast — and it paid off.
The next day brought strong winds: 30 knots and a solid sea state. I had an incredible time surfing down the waves — maybe a little too much, since I ended up sailing too high in anticipation of the transition before Cap Corse. At 3 a.m., I rounded the Giraglia lighthouse in 5–7 knots of upwind breeze, surrounded by the IRC fleet. We were tacking, calling right-of-way under the stars and one of the most iconic beacons of the Mediterranean — a surreal and beautiful moment.
Day three was the slowest. While the Class40s were motoring back from Capraia, we were still crawling toward the island at less than 2 knots, just trying to keep the gennaker filled to avoid drifting into the TSS. By mid-morning, a 10–12 knot easterly filled in, giving us a beautiful beat toward the southern tip of Capraia. Rounding the island was a nightmare — a real “parking lot.” I managed to stay a bit further offshore than the others, and it paid off: I was the first to escape the wind hole, keeping the lead. What a satisfaction to see the others stuck at 1 knot while I was moving at 7, bow pointed west again.
From there, I rounded the Giraglia again, pushed by 12 knots from the east, in a gorgeous night downwind with flat seas. Then — total calm at dawn. I had no idea where the others were. Did they still have wind? Were they ahead? Behind? The only thing I could do was focus on Petit Pied: make her fast, and get to Porquerolles as soon as possible.
In the afternoon, the wind shifted southwest, giving me wonderful hours of upwind sailing at 6 knots toward the finish. I’ve never been a big fan of upwind sailing, but that time was different: no suffocating heat, steady breeze building up, sharp little waves to play with at the helm, and a feeling of pure harmony. Maybe I got a bit too close to the coast, because during the night the Mistral eased again. But somehow, I stayed ahead and crossed the finish line at 04:55 a.m.
Too bad no one had told us the race was over. I spent the whole next day completely stressed, drifting in unstable winds, not knowing where to go — my last weather report was five days old, and my French isn’t exactly great, especially over VHF. David was catching up, and at one point, he nearly took the lead. I was exhausted, had barely slept, and was emotionally drained. For a moment, I thought about giving up.
But I pulled myself together: three micro-naps of 10 minutes each, breathing, keeping the boat fast, staying focused. Staying between him and the next mark. And it worked.
Entering Marseille at 8 p.m., first across the line, with a breathtaking sunset and cold beers waiting ashore with the Class40 friends who had finished a few hours earlier, was an immense relief — and pure joy. The perfect ending to an unforgettable race.