The Continent – Corsica crossing by Florent Dode

Hello everyone!

First of all, I want to thank you all for your support. This adventure wouldn’t have happened without you, and I’m grateful! It was an ordeal that was close to my heart and one I’ll remember for a long time. I don’t know if I’ll have any more such stupid ideas in the future, because this one has inoculated me for a while.
Below is the story of my crossing from the Continent to Corsica. Please bear with me for my writing; it’s not my strong point!

The genesis of the Continent – Corsica crossing on a stand-up paddle

We had originally planned a team consisting of Philippe, Thierry, Stephane, and myself. Due to changing weather conditions, we had to bring our departure forward by two days to maximize our chances of an optimal crossing (flat conditions and little wind). Unfortunately, Philippe and Thierry were unable to change their schedule.

Thursday evening 11 p.m., I find myself alone with Stéphane, the boat captain, and two days before departure, it’s going to be complicated to organize ourselves. I call, just in case, one of my best childhood friends, Juju, my adventure companion. 11:30 p.m., half asleep, he picks up, wondering what’s going on. Explaining my situation to him and after consulting with his other half, Fédé, his response is without hesitation: he will accompany me on this crossing!

Departure for the crossing

Saturday, May 14 – 2:30 p.m.

Here we are at the port of La Ciotat. The reorganized team is ready to discover this new personal challenge. The introductions are made, all the equipment is loaded aboard the small 8-meter sailboat, as well as my two 3 Bay boards. I have my Arrow Head flat 14′ by 22″ prototype used for the Dordogne Intégrale and my Irus 14′ by 23″ for the rough waters.

Heading to Porquerolles, about 8 hours by boat, where we will spend the night.

Stéphane decides to sail back towards Porquerolles so as not to use the engine and thus burn too much diesel. The weak easterly wind doesn’t allow us to make close-hauled progress at the speed we’d hoped to reach Porquerolles before nightfall. I don’t say much, Juju and I look at each other, a little innocent, so as not to question the captain’s choice.
We enjoy being there, we admire the scenery; it’s not every day that we can enjoy a little sailboat trip, and we’re even lucky enough, during our evening meal (duck confit, pâté) as the sun sets, to be visited by a small pod of dolphins who come to play with the boat!
After 13 hours of sailing and a vomit on my calorie intake for the La Ciotat/Porquerolles trip, we finally arrive to anchor the boat at 3:00 a.m.

Sunday, May 15, 8 a.m.

I wake up first. The night was short and eventful. The conditions in the morning aren’t great, with an easterly wind still very present and felt even though the boat is anchored in the shelter of Porquerolles.

As usual for this type of event, my breakfast is simple but effective: a good dish of rice with sardines. While I get ready, I check the forecast, which has been constantly changing since the beginning of the week. So far, no change. The wind isn’t expected to drop until mid-afternoon, which promises a rather sporty start to the race!

The Continent – ​​Corsica crossing

Sunday, May 15, 9 a.m.

Juju and Stéphane stand up as I finish dressing in my combat outfit:

• 3mm shellfish booties that I call my babouches,
• Saint-Jacques 3mm longjohns that I find really comfortable for paddling when the conditions aren’t very warm,
• Decathlon long-sleeved UV-resistant Lycra that I wear under the longjohn,
• 1.5-liter water Camelback,
• Cap,
• Neck warmer,
• Sunglasses,
• Sunscreen stick to protect my face from the sun.

I tell Stéphane that if the wind conditions remain the same in 4 hours we might have to cover the tarpaulin and go home!

Sunday, May 15, 10 a.m.

Having decided to take my 23″ Irus to be more comfortable in these types of conditions, I set off towards the eastern tip of Porquerolles: the Deux Frères rocks are about 2km away, so I can warm up and get my bearings before tackling the worksite.

Here I am, right into the thick of things. Once past the rocks, the water changes radically: a beam swell, a 15-knot headwind, a real blast ahead. We set a course for Port-Cros Island, which is about ten kilometers from Porquerolles; this will be my first objective of the day.
I ask the boat to take the lead to try to break this playing field undermined by wind and swell. My speed is comparable to that of a snail, trying to navigate a succession of bumps as best I can without burning too much fuel, varying my progress between 4 and 7 km/h.
I adapt my rowing style by working on my leg flexibility, to wind as much as possible and avoid hitting the water too hard. Even trying to optimize my strokes, I feel like I’m losing some energy, and that it will cost me later on… If there is a follow-up!

We’ve reached Port Cros Island. We’re downwind, a moment of respite during which we skim the cliffs for a little over 2.5 km to reach a much cleaner stretch of water. I appreciate it when things aren’t moving too much anymore, and I’m already thinking about what’s next.
Will the conditions be as harsh as they were at the beginning once I leave the shelter of Port Cros? And if so, how much longer will I be able to keep up the pace?

Sunday, May 15, 1 p.m.

First refueling stop, we’ve just been away from Port-Cros Island for an hour. I approach the boat, staying on my board, we swap Camelbacks, and take stock. For the moment, I’m not particularly tired; I can continue like this with a swell that’s still there, but has diminished considerably, and a wind that’s weakening. The forecast seems good, and the various pieces of information I received the day before from Clément Salzes and Olivier Drut confirm the situation. The situation should calm down in the afternoon.
We decide to take another look in three hours to confirm.

I’m making progress, the elements are becoming more and more lenient towards me, the speed is picking up a little to approach an average of 7 km/h. Not very fast, but it’s good for morale to finally feel my board glide and to release less power with each stroke.
The landscape changes as we move away from the coast, the boatyard gives way to a much smoother sea, becoming a mirror where a few ripples appear with the few small air masses that brush against it. We quickly find ourselves in an atmosphere that I appreciate and that gives me renewed desire to continue the crossing.

Sunday, May 15, 4 p.m., second refueling after 6 hours of rowing

The lights are green, morale is high, so is our form, and our desire is even higher! We can continue at this pace with refreshments every 3 hours, which will become routine: a change of Camelback, a vanilla Beautysané, and we’re off again.
Already 40 km covered, and we can barely see the coast of the continent anymore. We’re gradually entering the part of the crossing we’ve come for: being alone in the middle of nowhere, immersed in this atmosphere of infinity, with the sole objective of reaching the other side. The machine is run in, the rowing frequency remains between 40 and 45 strokes per minute, I stay focused on my posture and the phases of muscular relaxation on the paddle returns, I try to change from time to time technique and rowing frequencies to vary the use of the different muscle groups, and to listen to my body, it is also the opportunity to think about other things, family, friends, the reason for this challenge, the time spent to be ready for it, everything is good to take to get out of the monotony and pass the time.

Sunday, May 15, 7 p.m. third refueling

The sun is behind me, the conditions are optimal, the horizon line is difficult to distinguish between the mirror-like effect of the water and a rather blue-gray sky. Normally perfect conditions on a lake where there’s no water movement, but it really makes a difference with this sea, which always maintains a swell.

For the next refueling stop, I ask them to have my lamp ready so I can be seen during the night navigation and to prepare a little slightly hot Thai Beautysané soup for a change from vanilla and banana.

Since we left the island of Port-Cros, I continue to stay ahead of the boat, positioning myself slightly to the side, between 50 and 200 meters ahead, to keep an eye on it without it hindering my progress while maintaining the course for Corsica. The feeling of solitude increases more and more with the diminishing intensity of the sunlight, a light heat haze sets in, we find ourselves in a rather milky atmosphere where visual cues diminish to allow the other senses to take over, particularly proprioceptive ones. Muscle relaxation is less easy and the body goes on alert to anticipate any movement of the water to avoid falling.
As night begins to fall, I think I see water movement about 50 meters in front of me, then the appearance of fins that I can make out on my side, still about fifty meters away. Unable to clearly distinguish the visitors, I approach the sailboat, signaling the presence of something behind me… Even though I knew I was in no danger, one can’t help but think of something else, but it was only two curious dolphins paying me a visit.

I’m looking forward to the next refueling stop so I can set up the light to be more visible in case of a fall or inattention from my guardian angels, because without a fire starter, GPS or light, it’s difficult to find my way in this vastness if I have a problem.

Sunday, May 15, 10 p.m., fourth refueling

A little soup, a change of Camelback, an extra neck warmer on my head to counter the night chill, and placing my headlamp, used on the 11 City Tour, on the front of the board. I know I won’t necessarily need it since the moon and clear sky will give me ample nighttime visibility, but it also helps my guardian angels not lose me.
The sensations are still good, I tell myself that I’ve already done the equivalent of a 10-hour Vassivière in kilometers… I suppose so, but I have absolutely no idea. My GPS failed me after 12 hours of paddling because I left the light on it early in the morning. But I try to occupy my mind as best I can by making comparisons that aren’t very coherent. At that moment I told myself that I had already done one DI and that I still had two left to finish this crossing… We keep busy, we keep busy and time passes but not always as quickly as we would like.

We think of friends and family:
“to my darling who lets me go even though she had planned a 4.21 outing and who ends up looking after the girls and the only time I’m not there, Lilo, aged 18 months, wakes up several times during the night even though she never does.
He was supposed to come with me but in the end he couldn’t, too bad for him because he’s missing out on yet another stupid thing that Luïs didn’t organize. I’m thinking of you, whom I don’t know but who are allowing me to make this crossing… And yes, because I still can’t open the file of people that Philippe sent me, because I’m a computer idiot, it will finally be my darling who will open it for me via her computer. I’m thinking of you, the miners, placing a mine here and a mine there for the tandems… I’m thinking of you, my partner Olivier, who would surely have appreciated these calm conditions as we like them… I think to you Clément for your precious help with the weather forecast which I didn’t really believe in and which I hope will last until the end… I’m thinking of Mickaël Blanchard for lending me the tracker which I don’t have with me… again because of me because I warned him too late and so no more availability. I’m thinking of my mom, my brother, my dad, who don’t even know I’m here because I didn’t warn them to do this stupid thing… I’m thinking of Thierry who could have taken beautiful pictures to share with you but they will be in my head… I’m thinking of Roro who for the first time won’t be there because on a romantic weekend, he’s cheating on me! I’m thinking of Greg, my second childhood friend, who would be telling me to row as hard as you are stupid, you would surely have appreciated these little moments of sharing with Juju… I’m missing out on lots of others but my mind can’t focus my ideas”

Night of Sunday 15 to Monday 16 May

The night passed well, not a sound except for the drone in the background of the sailboat moving forward at low speed with its engine to follow me. From time to time we saw a few lights of boats offshore but it was completely calm and the atmosphere was mysterious, the moon guiding us through a light mist that made the stars invisible.

A glassy sea which, normally on a lake, would be an easy stretch of water, but which is less obvious than I would have thought with this slight rolling that is practically invisible with this poor visibility making my movement groping. Difficult to be relaxed as I wish in terms of legs.

Monday, May 16, 4 a.m.

18 hours of rowing have just passed, still no slaps, and it’s 4:00 a.m.
It often happens around this time that your biological clock reminds you to go to bed, and this often results in a major slump. Nothing, it’s weird, is the coffee mixed with the Coke keeping me awake, or is it the fear of falling into the water? A dolphin crossing at night is always pleasant but not very reassuring. All that’s missing is the little bell in the background like in “Jaws,” the mind plays tricks on us! But no, not even scared! Well, of course, it had to happen… I hear the boat making a rolling noise and I see ripples coming from three-quarters aft. So no, it wasn’t a shark, nor a whale, even though I would have liked it to be, but surely ripples generated by a big boat that got the better of me. A swim helps clear your head, but it’ll be the only one of the crossing. Always nice to take a surprise dip…

I set off again cautiously, visibility becoming increasingly poor with the moon not only setting, but also experiencing a total eclipse around 5:30 a.m. It’s hard to see the sea on the horizon; daybreak shouldn’t be long.

The first rays of dawn make the few stars still visible disappear through this milky atmosphere.
The night has just passed, giving way to one of my most beautiful sunrises; the photos are much more explicit. Simply magical!

Monday, May 16, 7 a.m.

The spectacle gives me wings, especially when I see a black mass on the horizon: the Isle of Beauty emerging from the water! That’s it, the hardest part is done, I can already see myself drinking a beer and sitting on an armchair on the terrace!

I’m rowing at a good pace, heading towards this spectacle that Mother Nature is giving us, with joy and energy to spare. I’m still resupplying every 3 hours, but I finally realize that I’m not returning my Camelback completely finished… It’s a key moment in the crossing when you think you’re done… But no, man… This is just the beginning of hell in paradise!

I’m questioning myself, how can you have made it this far? You’ve just rowed for 24 hours at an average speed of about 6-7 km/h. I’m really stupid and useless at mental arithmetic; the lack of clarity linked to fatigue is making me lose my common sense. You have at least 210 km of crossing to go if your course is correct, not counting the wind, swell, and Ligurian current parameters, so… No need to think, you’re going to be in trouble for another 10 hours!

The third dimension begins

This island, which seemed so close at first light, the more I row, the more I realize how far away it is. I can’t make out anything from the coast, let alone appreciate the distance. It’s horrible, and I know this is only the beginning of the ordeal.

The sun rises, the temperature too, the body of water worthy of Lake Lockness in the tropics gives the effect of a mirror and increases the aggressiveness of the sun, I am going to burn on the water. I advance as I can, my thighs are harder and harder, my knees… my weak points… always start by hurting me at the beginning to then give the impression of having needles sticking into me and it always ends the same, seized locked like old rusty hinges. I take it upon myself, I manage to more or less manage my pain by changing my way of rowing. I can no longer even appreciate the spectacle that passes in front of me at the speed of a snail. During these long hours of pain and fatigue, we encountered I don’t know how many sunfish parading in front of us, including one that almost knocked me over with swarms of small squid that I mistook for jellyfish resting on the surface of the water like daisies in a field. A minefield waiting to welcome me, yes!
An ordeal, I tell you!

The slump

And what happened, happened… nothing left, not even a bit of juice, I paddle in a caressing-the-water mode and, above all, try not to fall. I signal to the boat, sit on the board, and wait. I’m ready, rag rug! Okay, guys, this is going to be very long! Stephane, how far are we from Calvi?

20 miles, he replies, almost nothing!
He’s making fun of me, not only does he tell me 20 miles as if I’ve mastered miles, but he also tells me almost nothing… I try to calculate roughly, 6 hours of rowing all the same!
A break is necessary; I’ve drunk practically nothing from the Camelback since the last aid station, I need to rehydrate properly before setting off again. I ask for a cloth, which I soak in water, as well as my cap to lower the temperature and also to protect myself from the sun because it’s going to be a real drag for the remaining six hours. I unfasten the straps of my Longjohn.

Here I am, back at an old-fashioned pace, slowly getting the machine going again. I no longer think about anything, I look ahead towards this damned, so-called beautiful island, I see the course I must steer, I mull over it again and again… Okay, that’s it, I’ll stop my nonsense, I’ll see Corsica, you could say I’m done, right?

Monday, May 16, 6 p.m.: the long-awaited arrival in Calvi

I’m slowly regaining some energy. I can see the Calvi lighthouse. A light breeze from the front refreshes my face; we’re not far away.
Julien joins me on the water with the second 3 Bay to accompany me for the last few kilometers before arriving at the lighthouse, which lasts over an hour. Thanks, friend!
Stéphane is approaching us.
Come on, gentlemen, follow me. I’ll give you the direction to enter the bay! Julien falls, I continue on my way. The wind shifts, and I try to shelter from the wind by approaching the cliff where the lighthouse peaks.
Finally, Julien gets back on the boat because the wind is too strong to enter the bay.

I realize that the crossing of the bay, between the lighthouse and the citadel, is going to turn into a real carnage. In 10 minutes, the water changes with the shifting wind, which has strengthened, and accelerates with a venturi effect in the small bay, a three-quarter tailwind but above all a strong sideways chop.
I get angry after arguing with Stéphane, who tells me to head straight for the citadel, explaining that the wind is tailwind, but he forgets that I’m not in a boat and that after 35 hours of paddling, my legs aren’t ready to handle his trajectory. I never would have believed the end of the course would end like this! I draw on my last resources to pull this tack, resisting the elements, a real battle against myself, and I hold on as best I can to avoid breaking down so close to the finish. I almost fell into the water several times, my thighs were on fire, I could no longer feel my knees, my head was spinning at that moment, but I finally managed to reach the lower part of the citadel which completely sheltered me from this ordeal.

I’m exhausted, I have nothing left, a real vegetable, a rag and I only have one desire: to sit down after a good shower around a well-deserved foam!

That’s an old dream come true! After the 200 km non-stop of the Canal du Midi in 2014, the first DI in 2015, the 207 km in 23 hours of the distance record of 2018, I have just completed the crossing of the Continent to Corsica, solo, on stand-up paddle! I have completed this adventure which has been on my mind for a few years! What will be my next adventure?