MAY 16, 2026
Two graceful white gulls frolic before the bows of the remarkable catamaran Ganany, firmly moored at the honorary quay of the charming port of Ischia. We have just arrived, coming from Olbia which we left yesterday morning. A snail's departure due to virtually non-existent wind. Fortunately, by the end of this first day of sailing, we had aligned ourselves with our weather forecast files, to such a degree that during my watch at five o'clock in the morning, I woke up accompanied by the characteristic sounds of water streaming against the hulls. I go to relieve Arnaud, standing solidly on his legs before the helm station, attentively monitoring the luminous dials of the dashboard which indicate, among other things, the true wind force and its direction. Outside, the night is pitch black and the bows of our floats glide forward, triggering shooting stars of phosphorescent plankton. I will leave Lord George, our pilot (his latest nickname), to steer conscientiously for now. I'm having a bit of trouble getting used to the comfortable interior of this cell in which I don't perceive the wind on my face, nor the sound of the sea. I am alone now, like a shepherd guarding his sheep, I watch over the crew who sleeps. I monitor the wind and the course. We are nearly seventy miles from Ischia and much closer to the three islands of the Pontine archipelago that we will leave well to port in about an hour. The black screen of the radar signals no boats around us; I am surprised by the weakness of maritime traffic—could it be due to restrictions caused by the blocking of the Strait of Hormuz and the rise in diesel prices, which of course doesn't affect our vessel, totally exempt from fossil fuels. Outside, the wind strengthens, between twenty-five and thirty knots true that we receive from three-quarters aft, broad reach for those who understand the complicated language of sailors, with our two wings widely deployed perpendicular. The sea goes from rough to very rough, short too, a characteristic of the Mediterranean.
With amazing synchronization, day breaks and so does Martin! Soon followed in order by our two adventurers of the depths, then our tranquil sailor, Arnaud remaining on standby in his cabin, sleeping with one eye open like any proper captain who respects himself! It's a bit clearer now. The turbulent wind chases away the clouds, the beautiful sea (not the mother-in-law) takes on an indigo blue hue through which Ganany bravely traces a double straight wake of immaculate whiteness... opalescent, I'd even say more! I relieve our pilot at the black carbon helm and open the hunt for the record he holds at 21 knots! I am pleasantly surprised by the hellish reactions of the boat that I'm directing for the first time in these muscular conditions. It behaves practically like an offshore racing multihull, reacting to the slightest turn of the helm we give to place it in the wave that runs and launching into long surfs above 15 knots without the bows drinking the cup. Not bad for a pleasure boat with luxurious arrangements imagined without concessions to the weight budget. The architects of VPLP (Editor's Note: highly renowned Vannes architecture firm, designer of the world's best ocean racers) can be proud of their design.
For now, our record hunt continues. Martin reaches twenty knots not far behind Lord George; I follow at nineteen point five, but Arnaud gets everyone to agree with a peak at twenty-three knots, in front of witnesses, therefore officially validated. Normal, he's the boss! This will cost him the champagne upon arrival! The advantage of this record hunt is putting us ahead of our forecasts, so we cross the line in front of Ischia Porto at exactly 1:00 PM, after delicately folding our wings (much more poetic than dousing). Twenty minutes later, after an impeccable maneuver, we hook the two pendilles (endemic mooring system of Mediterranean ports), immobilize the boat, its stern one meter from the quay, right in front of the Captain's Office. Practical for formalities!
Barely time to catch our breath, we are greeted by a vivacious woman whom we initially took for a port official or the owner of the neighboring boat, depending! In reality, she is Dr. Nuria Teixido who manages the Naples stage. Very directive but also friendly, she immediately takes care of us who leave staggering (due to land sickness) to visit in order, her laboratory, of which she is very rightly proud, a beach, I don't know why, and finally, the long-awaited moment, the Italian bistro of our wildest dreams with Gelati, tiramisu and cappuccino... in abundance! Yes, our Italian stopover looks good, especially because tomorrow Sunday we have a layover! No dawn wake-up, which will probably allow some and others to tour the night bars and other places of perdition. I'm a tomb and won't name anyone!!!!