'I'm not there yet, we haven't crossed the line yet.'
I spoke in French into the sat phone as I struggled to answer too many questions. 'It's not over till it's over' turned over in my mind. I was acutely aware that Kingfisher and I had not finished the race. Please leave us alone to concentrate on getting over that line.
Outside the fog was closing in, though until now the sea had remained calm. I was worried that I would hit someone or something over the last few hectic miles of the race. We simply had to finish safely; we had already seen what a fragile existence we were living out here. As far as a boat's concerned, more often than not it's the land that is the threat, and it was land we were approaching. The first support boat that came out to meet us was now almost out of sight, though only a few yards ahead of us, disappearing in the thickening fog.
I had felt torn over those last days of the race. Problems with the forestay had meant there was a constant risk of losing the mast, which was massively stressful. But despite this I wasn't sure I wanted to finish. Part of me quite definitely wanted to stay out there for ever.
The fog rolling in as the light faded felt like a sign, as if we weren't meant ever to see the finish. It was as if were meant never to come, or that we might be able to pop across the line and slip back out again silently under the cover of the blanket of mist. I thought back to my very first transatlantic crossing, in which our first land fall after leaving America was Les Sables d'Olonne. Alone on deck then, seeing the shoreline for the first time, I'd wanted to turn back, imagining that the other side of the ocean would never come.
Five years later, right now, I have that same feeling.
Within the fog it was eerie. I could hear other boats around me, but all I could see through the grey denseness were the few square metres of dull water around us. The suspense gripped me. Small waves began to build as the wind increased, bringing a damp chill into the late evening air. My heart beat faster as with our growing motion my fears for the mast returned. I set about reefing the sail, reducing its area to lessen the strain. Moving through the darkness, I worried about a collision while I was busy concentrating on the sail. The support boat was out of sight now, blanketed in the fog, and I was worried she would lose me completely. With the reef in I was happier; although we were slower, we were safer. The ends of races are never easy, so why should the Vendée Globe be any different?
I popped below to the cabin to check our distance from the coastline; we were heading right for the shore and it was time to tack. Back on deck I looked up and could see more clearly and began to pick out a few lights around me. As the seconds passed the fog began to lift and I could see lights distinctly for the first time. My little world evaporated. I suddenly felt I'd been dropped into a Hollywood film set - there couldn't have been a greater contrast from the silent covering of the fog to the thousands of lights which surrounded me. There were boats of all sizes heading towards us, and helicopters above with searchlights sweeping as if looking to pinpoint an escaping prisoner. The noise dominated the moment - whenever the sound of the rotors drifted away on the wind, it was replaced by the radio chattering out information on our position and speed. I stood in the cockpit, took a few long, deep and calming breaths and looked up and around to try to take in the situation. It was breathtaking.
The water felt confused as the boats moved close around us, a choppy, fidgety motion which I hadn't felt once in months. I could hear voices on the radio, some in English, some in French, some of strangers, some of people I knew. I thought I heard the name of the boat that my parents had come out on at the start of the race. I knew they were near, I could sense it, but my world was blinded by the blazing searchlights. I had my own floodlight ready on board and tried pointing it at several of the large motor cruisers to see if I could spot Mum and Dad. No luck, just many waving figures and rolling cameras.
I had the photocopy of the finish line, given to all the skippers at the briefing before the race. I had put it in the waterproof folder, hoping then that the day would come when we could use it to find our way in. Everything seemed so different from our departure -even the lighthouses on the harbour breakwaters were lost in this artificial brightness.
I ran up and down Kingfisher's deck making final checks as we glided towards the finish line, and could see every part of the boat, so there was no need for a head torch. I stood by the shrouds squinting to see the Nouch Sud buoy that helped signal the finish, but it was impossible. I returned to the chart table to study the chart. We needed to tack again.
I talked on the radio to the support boats, asking them to warn others I was about to turn. We had to make sure that we made space in the crowds so I could turn Kingfisher safely. I dashed below a couple of times to use the main VHP radio once the hand-held had gone flat. Although we were clearly not alone, it seemed so much quieter inside the boat. I tried to believe that the finish was not imminent, that I was just sheltering inside from a rough sea, still in the same world I'd been in for so long, but I couldn't. Our sole objective for over ninety days had been to cross the line as quickly as possible, and now it was less than a mile away. We'd sailed 26,000 miles, but I wished we still had 26,000 more to go.
As I peered into the cockpit of each boat I could see people, people I knew, faces I had not seen for over three months, tearful but smiling. Everyone hung on every second of every minute as we closed in on the finish.
Although I was desperate to see everyone again and to cross the line before we had more problems, I still wasn't ready for the race to end. Our focus on getting here had been so intense that it was hard to see to the other side of it. I had been through the experiences in my head a million times, but at the end of it all, something somewhere inside me knew that everything was going to change.
Things began to happen more quickly. The RIB with our support team on board was now almost alongside us. The flashing white light of the buoy was getting closer, and its enormous black and yellow superstructure became clear ahead of me. For a brief moment there seemed to be complete silence - we were nearly there. I looked around Kingfisher for one final check that everything was still OK. As my eyes refocused on the buoy, there was a deafening crack ... the gun had fired, and at 1936 and 40 seconds on 11 February 2001 we had crossed the finish line.
Adrenalin surged through me. The RIB pulled alongside us, its passengers jumping aboard like a raiding party, and as the horns blew and the voices screamed I was embraced and wrapped up in loving arms - my first human contact for over three months. Strangely, there were no tears, just the most incredible feeling of relief. As if a plug had been pulled, my concentration ebbed away in the time it takes for a gun to fire. No longer did I need to sleep for just ten minutes to recover, no longer did I need to look at the instruments each time I blinked. It was over, the race was over, and if it weren't for the adrenalin I'm sure I would have collapsed. We had made it. Together, Kingfisher and I had made it.