Why take a plane when you can race across the Atlantic at thirty knots? 
There are people who cross the Atlantic because they have to.
Immigrants.
Fishermen.
Naval officers.
People with jobs.
And then there are the people who do it because someone offered them a sixty-foot carbon-fibre yacht and said:
“Fancy racing it?”
Six teams said yes.
God help them.
On September 1, they leave New York.
They'll pass the Statue of Liberty, wave at the tourists, smile for the cameras and look remarkably healthy.
A few days later they'll look like they've been dragged behind a truck.
That's The Ocean Race Atlantic.
Three thousand miles from New York to Lorient.
No stopovers.
No hotel.
No shower.
Just six IMOCA 60s charging across the North Atlantic with four sailors aboard each boat.
And the boats are fast.
Very fucking fast.
The current IMOCA 24-hour record is 641 nautical miles.
In one day.
That's an average of almost 27 knots.
People drive cars more slowly than that.
But cars don't fall sideways off waves.
These boats do.
They have foils.
Big ones.
The boat hits enough speed and suddenly the hull starts leaving the water.
Which is wonderful.
Until it isn't.
Because gravity has been waiting patiently for millions of years and it doesn't care about your sponsorship agreement.
THE PLAYERS
Boris Herrmann is there.
He's been around the world enough times to know that the world is mostly water and that water is generally trying to ruin your day.
Team Malizia also has Cole Brauer and Justine Mettraux.
Brauer has sailed around the world alone.
Mettraux has just finished eighth in the Vendée Globe.
So they've got experience.
A lot of it.
Then there's Francesca Clapcich.
She won The Ocean Race in 2023.
Her crew includes Alberto Bona, Elodie-Jane Mettraux and Will Harris.
Harris helped set that ridiculous 641-mile record.
So they aren't planning to spend much time sightseeing.
Paul Meilhat is back with United by the Ocean.
He won The Ocean Race Europe in 2025.
Benjamin Ferré is aboard.
Ferré once crossed the Atlantic with a sextant.
Which means that if the computers explode, someone can still find France.
Assuming France is still there.
Kojiro Shiraishi has Samantha Davies and Nicolas Lunven aboard his brand-new DMG MORI Global One.
Brand-new boats are lovely.
Everything is shiny.
Everything smells like carbon fibre and money.
Then you sail them across the Atlantic at thirty knots.
And suddenly you discover that one of the shiny bits has an opinion.
Oliver Heer brings Embrace The Challenge.
The name is optimistic.
Personally, I'd call it:
“Here We Fucking Go Again.”
And finally there's Conrad Colman.
The Kiwi.
Four circumnavigations.
Two Vendée Globes without fossil fuels.
And a daggerboard boat surrounded by modern foilers.
Everyone else is trying to fly.
Colman is going the other way.
It's either madness.
Or genius.
In offshore sailing those two things are usually separated by about six inches of broken carbon.
THE OCEAN
The North Atlantic doesn't care who's famous.
It doesn't care who won the last race.
It doesn't care who has the newest boat.
It doesn't care about your Instagram account.
It has wind.
It has waves.
It has the Gulf Stream.
It has depressions rolling across the ocean like drunk men looking for a fight.
And then there is sleep.
Or rather, the lack of it.
Imagine trying to sleep while your house is moving at thirty knots.
Now imagine the house has no brakes.
Now imagine somebody occasionally throws a washing machine at it.
Welcome aboard.
THE WOMEN
There is something else worth watching.
Every racing crew has two women and two men.
Not as a publicity stunt.
Not as an exhibition.
They're racing.
Equal numbers.
Equal miles.
Equal storms.
Equal opportunity to discover that something expensive has just broken.
It's the first time in the 53-year history of The Ocean Race that every crew has been required to be gender-equal.
That's progress.
The ocean probably doesn't care.
It never has.
But sailing does.
And that's important.
THE CAMERAS
Every boat also carries an On Board Reporter.
Which means we get to watch.
We'll see the sailors eating.
Sleeping.
Racing.
Fixing things.
Breaking things.
Arguing with weather models.
Arguing with each other.
And staring at the horizon wondering why the hell they didn't become accountants.
There will be a tracker.
There will be video.
There will be daily broadcasts.
You can sit at home and watch people suffer in real time.
Modern civilisation has finally achieved something worthwhile.
NEW YORK TO LORIENT
The start will look beautiful.
New York behind them.
Statue of Liberty.
Sunshine.
Crowds.
Clean boats.
Clean clothes.
Fresh faces.
Then the Atlantic gets them.
The boats will spread out.
The weather will change.
The Gulf Stream will become a tactical chessboard.
The speeds will climb.
Somebody will break something.
Somebody will swear.
Somebody will discover that carbon fibre is surprisingly sharp when you're crawling around on deck in the dark.
And eventually the boats will come screaming into Lorient.
Probably somewhere around September 8 or 9.
The first boat will cross the line.
People will cheer.
Champagne will appear.
Cameras will roll.
The sailor will smile.
And somewhere inside that exhausted human being there will be a little voice saying:
Never again.
Until the next race.
Because that's sailors.
They suffer.
They swear.
They sell the boat.
They buy another boat.
Then they go back out.
WHY WE WATCH
You can call it sport.
You can call it technology.
You can call it sustainability.
You can call it professional sailing.
All true.
But that's not why I watch.
I watch because there's something beautiful about watching human beings voluntarily leave safety.
Not because they're stupid.
Although some of them probably are.
But because the ocean offers something you can't get on land.
Silence.
Fear.
Freedom.
And the possibility that for a few hours, or a few days, nobody knows exactly what will happen next.
That's becoming rare.
Everything is tracked now.
Everything is predicted.
Everything has an app.
The weather tells you what will happen tomorrow.
Your phone tells you where you are.
Your car tells you when to brake.
Your watch tells you when to sleep.
And then six boats leave New York and say:
Fuck all that.
Give us the Atlantic.
Give us the wind.
Give us the waves.
We'll figure it out.
Maybe that's the whole point.
On September 1, they go.
I'll be watching.
With the tracker open.
A drink beside me.
And absolutely no intention of helping them.
Because some people need to cross the Atlantic.
Some people need to race across it.
And some of us are perfectly happy sitting in a chair watching the whole beautiful disaster unfold.
The ocean doesn't give a shit.
Neither should you.
Just enjoy the show:
https://www.theoceanrace.com/en/atlantic/2026
f this story made your day a little better... You know where the coffee pot is☕️
https://buymeacoffee.com/mywayaroundtheworld/membership