She won everything, except the race

Euan Ferguson in Les Sables D'Olonne watches as France prepares to welcome Ellen MacArthur, the British sailor who has become the century's first true heroine

The Observer,
Sunday February 11 2001

Very soon, she will smell the land. Two hundred miles out from these ancient French sands, somewhere under a bruised sky growing lower and grimmer by the second, Ellen MacArthur is almost home; hanging on desperately, with a mast likely to crash down in seconds if her luck finally deserts her, but almost home.

So soon, some time this Sunday morning, she will smell the land; and then she will see the boats, and the helicopters, and the tens of thousands lining the harbour and the sands, and the most remarkable piece of sailing by a British woman begun in the week America went shambolically to the polls, will be over.

She hasn't won the Vendée Globe. That honour, and Ellen's radioed congratulations yesterday, went to Frenchman Michel Desjoyeaux, 'The Professor', who was last night due to sail his yacht PRB, the mouse to whom Ellen has been cat for the last exhilarating fortnight, into port as a filthily wet Les Sables lit up in his honour. He, as has Ellen, has rewritten the record books, sailing round the world single-handed in an astonishing 95 days, tearing the previous time down by 10 days.

His story, an idiosyncratic mix of quiet competence and Gallic inspiration, will be told again and again. But it is Ellen's story that has caught the French imagination, and that of the world. Where the professor was expected to sail in with his boat a forgiveable mess, Ellen has been swabbing and sewing, keeping tidy throughout.

Where the men of the race, the bearded stars, have been seen clambering manfully around their rigging, Ellen has practically been lost inside hers: a tiny figure, almost forlorn, but for the fact that her grit, her refusal to give up, have made her perhaps the first true heroine of the 21st century.

Here, the French, conscious of her size, have begun comparing her to Joan of Arc. Chants of 'Vive Ellen!' have been heard round the Les Sables marina, where much of western France was gathered all yesterday in the rain, soaking itself in sympathy with the sailor whose adventures they have followed, with increasing fascination, since 9 November last year.

It was exhaustion, finally, which robbed Ellen of absolute triumph. One tiny slip, back on day 80, when she allowed herself a brief sleep in the Doldrums - not the hardest sailing by far, but as demanding in terms of crucial concentration as any - after a Herculanean struggle climbing the mast to mend the wind instruments, an endless night time battle worthy of a book or film in itself, and she had allowed Desjoyeaux, 'Mich' as she refers to him, to get the directional jump-start into the trade winds which he needed. After that it was always going to be hard for her to catch up. The astounding thing is that she almost made it.

Had it not been for her crashing into a floating container - one of many thousands dumped annually at sea - her daggerboard would not have been ruined. Even then, she effected repairs and motored on; it was only a couple of days ago, when her forestay unexpectedly went, that she knew the race was over; she could not pile the pressure on the mast without the risk of bringing it down.

Nevertheless, she knows, as she cruises in some time this evening, hoping furiously to catch the tide-barrier in time and enter Les Sables during the evening, rather than having to wait until the next morning, that what she has achieved is beyond any expectations. Beyond those of her parents, who hardly know what to make of their driven offspring; this is not a sailing family. Beyond the expectations of her homeland, which had forgotten how glorious its sailing tradition was and how one story could capture the imagination.

It has done so, quite simply, thanks to Ellen. Not for any false Amazonian stoicism; some of the time she was knackered, and in tears, and she shared it with people, by phone links and email, and it was this vulnerable human element to the tale which held.

We listened to it all. Her awe as she passed the insanely high blue icebergs. Her plaintive emails. Forgetting to eat. Remembering to dream. Celebrating various landmarks with a little champagne, but pouring the rest proudly over the deck. Throwing back the flying fish which landed on her deck, where others ate them. And the tiredness; the 20-minute catnaps and the luxurious two-hour snores, and the hours and hours at the computer, planning and planning and never giving in.

For, ultimately, and despite the fibreglass and computer design and emails and satellite strategising, this was an ancient human story.

For Ellen, for all those taking part, the Vendée Globe challenge was about their own body. About feeding it enough, about resting it just enough, about the drive that came from inside, about being strong enough despite the most ludicrous setbacks and the most maleficent turns of nature. It is about being able, at the last, to sail into this grey port knowing that, no matter what life throws at them, nothing will be able to take away the achievement of the Vendée Globe 2000/2001.

'I just have to keep going,' she radioed yesterday. 'I'm so worried about the mast. I just have to keep going. It's not easy though.'

She will arrive to congratulations from Tony Blair, Lionel, Jospin and Jacques Chirac, who have sent a message from the the Anglo-French summit, and, given the mood here, a memorable welcome from the French. Her parents will fly out in a Royal Navy helicopter tomorrow to see if they can fly over her and talk via the radio. She may have a drink or two.

And then the first thing she will do is climb back into Kingfisher and sail her home.