DC Supporters update 8th October:
Ocean racing is one of the most rewarding experiences imaginable, but it’s also one of the toughest. Out here, things break. Lines chafe, sails tear, equipment fails. Sometimes it’s just one of those things (the ocean reminding us who’s boss). Other times, it’s human error.
In Race 1, we sustained damage to our mast track, forcing us to sail under reef three for much of the leg, a constant reminder that sometimes the boat dictates the pace, not us. More recently, a tear in the mainsail means we’ll be sailing with reef one until we reach Punta del Este. It’s frustrating, of course, but that’s ocean racing: a balance between ambition and preservation, knowing when to push and when to protect the boat that carries us safely through it all.
When things like this happen, accountability matters. We look at what went wrong, we learn, and we own it. But there’s no point dwelling. Those who made the mistake, if there was one, often feel dreadful already. Guilt, frustration, disappointment… they can all creep in and undermine our collective spirit. We can’t allow that. Out here, we succeed or struggle together. Our strength isn’t in avoiding mistakes, but in how we recover from them; quickly, constructively, and kindly.
Then there are the moments that no words can quite capture. Unless you’ve experienced sailing across oceans in huge seas, it’s impossible to truly imagine, but I’ll try to explain. The boat heels hard, waves tower above the stern, and the sound is unlike anything on land. The wind howls through the rigging, the sails strain, and the hull slams into the water with a force that reverberates through your chest. It’s deafening, disorientating, and at times, overwhelming.
Some crew thrive in these conditions, finding joy and focus on the bow as spray explodes around them. Others steel themselves below deck or grip the coffee grinder in the pit, drawing courage from simply holding on. Both are acts of bravery. This is not a sport free of risk, and the weight of responsibility, for both ourselves and each other, can feel immense, even paralysing.
And yet, in the middle of all that chaos, there’s a strange kind of peace and a deep awareness that you are living fully. The quiet teamwork when something breaks. The silent understanding between people who have faced the same fear.
We’re learning constantly; not just how to race across oceans, but how to be the kind of team that thrives no matter what the sea throws our way. Now as we fast approach Punta after nearly a month and more than 5,300 miles sailed, I feel immense pride in every single person on board. What an incredible journey and what an honour to skipper this wonderful team. For better or worse, we’re in this together. And that, more than anything, is what makes this journey extraordinary.
Fair winds, Ella
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