My recap and reflections from The Ocean Race Atlantic 2026
What a race.
3,200 nautical miles.
6 teams.
4 sailors.
2 guys and 2 gals.
1 onboard reporter.
Less than 30 minutes separating the top four finishers.
7 days, 23 hours, 39 minutes, 11 seconds.
My first IMOCA race. My first transatlantic race. And my second transatlantic crossing—the first just a week earlier, delivering the boat from Lorient to New York in time for the start.
The race was brutal.
After the iconic parade past the Statue of Liberty, we headed 145 miles offshore to the start line, which had been positioned beyond a marine mammal exclusion zone to reduce the risk of encounters with whales.
We weren't even racing yet when the conditions began to take their toll.
That first night, we were sailing conservatively to the starting line, trying to rest, prepare food, check the boat and review the final weather forecast. But the sea state was so rough and confused that sleep was almost impossible. The start was eventually pushed back, and we finally crossed the line at 1400 UTC.
On an IMOCA 60, 20-30 knots of wind in a confused sea state is absolutely violent. You slam into the backs of waves and the shock reverbarates up your spine into your skull. It is horrendous.
For the first three to four days, we raced in this same part of the weather system with these rough seas. There was very little conversation on board. Every ounce of energy went into bracing yourself against the motion of the boat as it slammed into the waves.
The boat would launch us into the air every few seconds and slam us back down. If you were lucky, you could lie on your beanbag during your off-watch, close your eyes and fall asleep for five or ten minutes before the next impact woke you.
Even basic human functions were difficult. Drinking water meant trying not to smash the water bottle into your teeth. Eating and getting your spoon into your mouth was a battle. Going to the bathroom could take an absurd amount of time because every muscle in your body was focused on bracing against the waves.
My arms, back, legs, shins and butt were covered in bruises.
Even now, back on land, I catch myself walking with my shoulders up around my ears, still bracing against a motion that isn't there.
The biggest challenge during those first days wasn't going fast. It was keeping ourselves and the boat in one piece.
I didn't take a single photo or video for those days. I couldn't spare a handhold to pick up my phone. Our onboard reporter was in the same position, so we have very little footage of that part of the race.
I am lucky to still be able to say I’ve never been seasick. The only time I felt sick was when I had to stay below to repair a broken bed while the boat was violently slamming around. I was trying to tie tiny knots while being thrown through the air, with the engine running nearby to charge our batteries. Gasoline fumes, engine heat and the boat’s motion finally got to me. As soon as I finished the repair, I went on deck, and spent a few minutes taking measured breaths to settle my insides.
Eventually, and thankfully, the sea state began to ease.
We were so exhausted, but now we could actually sleep. We adjusted the watch schedule to give each person a solid three- to four-hour window where they could properly and deeply sleep.
We could finally move around the boat and do our systems checks. We hadn't had any major breakages or injuries—just relatively minor breakages (like broken beds from the slamming, hydraulic oil spills, and tinned sardine spills), plus bruises and exhaustion—and we were still in touch with the other boats.
We had survived, and now we could race.
In a race with just 4 sailors on a 60-foot foiling boat, reaching speeds of 35 knots, everyone must do everything. There are core positions and core responsibilities, but each teammate must contribute across all areas – driving, trimming, navigating, making sail calls, managing the systems on board, etc. It is a true team effort. I love this part of racing.
The second half of the race became a completely different kind of challenge compared to the first. We moved through light air and heavy air, big waves and short waves, flat water and chop. The wind shifted constantly.
Remarkably, we had very few maneuvers. After just one tack early on, we stayed on starboard all the way across the Atlantic and across the finish line, just changing sails and reefing or un-reefing as conditions demanded. In our exhaustion, checking and double-checking before each sail change was a critical strategy.
Two days before the finish, the sea state picked up again and hand steering became faster than the autopilot because humans can anticipate the motion of the boat and the waves and better manage the power cycles.
On our boat, hand steering is brutal.
You're completely exposed to the waves, getting washed with white water while fighting a heavy tiller with your entire body. The strongest drivers took the longest steering shifts, while the others recovered or focused on supporting them—getting them water and food, preparing the next driver, charging the boat’s batteries, managing the desalinator and generally keeping the boat running so they could finish their shift and go straight to sleep to prepare for the next.
Teamwork most certainly makes the dream work, and in those conditions, my role was to support the people who could make the boat go fastest.
In these conditions, we had a big moment where we cashed in on some luck. We were ripping along hand steering when Paul, who was driving, spotted a giant whale just 30 ish meters from the boat. Our onboard reporter, Marin, was on deck and managed to capture photographs of a couple of whales incredibly close to us. Scary close to us.
Across an ocean, 30 meters is nothing. If we'd been 30 meters farther south, we would have been directly in their path.
Offshore racing—and life in general— absolutely requires a little bit of luck.
And then, almost suddenly, the finish was close. In the final 24 hours as we approached the finish, the conditions gave us a different challenge as the wind became lighter and shiftier. Again, hand steering was faster than the autopilot, though now there was no white water washing over you.
That final night, we could see the mast lights of two other boats. And a fourth boat was coming in from the north, closing the gap incredibly quickly. By sunrise, we could see everyone's sails.
Four boats. Almost nothing between us. Every mile mattered. Every 1/10th of a knot of boat speed mattered.
As the wind shifted, our relative positions changed constantly. We eventually managed to get around the boat to our inside as they became trapped in the lighter air.
From that final sunrise to the finish, all four of us were on deck, each with a specific job to maximize our boat speed.
For me, that meant managing foil rake and keel position as the boat speed and heel changed. When we had more speed and power, I would jump into trimming—helping ease and trim the sails and making sure everything happened exactly when it needed to.
In the final 100 miles, the race became a strategic battle.
We had our plan to go inside the islands near the finish – Les îles Glénan. Our closest competitor was setting up to go outside.
The second-guessing set in. Do we stay with them and keep the race close? Or do we trust our strategy and take a different route? It is so hard to continue to trust your strategy and to escape the influence of second guessing when you are just meters apart from another team after 3200 miles.
We watched the boat speeds change by half a knot. Sometimes they were faster. Sometimes we were. The margins were tiny.
We went inside the islands.
Out of sight of our competitors, we sailed into a hole. For a moment, it looked like we'd made the wrong decision. But then the wind came back, with just enough velocity.
We kept the boat moving. Preserved our momentum. Glided toward the finish.
With ten minutes to go, it started to feel possible, but we were holding our breath as it also felt like the wind could shift at any moment and change everything.
With one minute to go, the emotions finally arrived.
We had done it.
In absolutely brutal conditions, we had kept our boat and ourselves from breaking, we had crossed the Atlantic together as a team, and we had done it faster than our competitors.
7 days, 23 hours, 39 minutes and 11 seconds with Paul Meilhat, Mariana Lobato, Benjamin Ferré, Sara Stone and Marin Le Roux (OBR).
Offshore racing is an incredibly raw human experience. You get to know your teammates across their entire range of emotion. You see them when they're exhausted, hungry, uncomfortable and frustrated. You see them after they've had a few hours of rest and some food and a good position report comes in. You see how they respond when something breaks, when the weather changes, when the pressure builds. And through all of it, you're working toward one goal together. There is nothing else like it.
And for me, this race was particularly special.
I first became inspired to pursue professional sailboat racing after watching Team SCA come together to compete in the Volvo Ocean Race back in 2013. That campaign and those women inspired me completely and set me on a path to change my life.
Now, thirteen years later, I have raced across the Atlantic Ocean for my first time on an IMOCA 60 in the race that is a precursor to The Ocean Race around the world. And we won.
It is so surreal to reflect on my path from then to now.
What a privilege it is to experience the world this way.