GREAT SEAMANSHIP
YOUNG BRETON SAILOR GUIREC SOUDÉE AND HIS FAMOUS RED HEN, MONIQUE, RIDE OUT CHRISTMAS ICE-BOUND IN GREENLAND
Say what you will, but the French have got style. We Anglo-Saxons may fancy ourselves as adventurers, but then along comes an unsponsored lad from North Brittany in a 30ft steel boat and trumps us all. Not only is his voyage more than notable in its own right, his choice of shipmate is unique. Very few single-handers take pets along for the ride. Examples like Pete Crowther who shipped out with his cat on the longest-ever passage in the single-handed Atlantic races are rare, but Guirec Soudée decided to sign on his favourite chicken. A little red hen called Monique accompanied him to the Caribbean, wintered in Northwest Greenland, sailed on through the Northwest Passage, down to Antarctica and home again to Brittany, rewarding him with an egg a day whenever she could manage it.
Guirec was just 18 when he slipped his lines. His humility, humour and youthful love for the world around him shines through every page of his inspiring book, A Sailor, a Chicken, an Incredible Voyage. We are lucky enough to join him and Monique aboard Yvinec over Christmas and the New Year far up the coast of Northwest Greenland. Things are not going smoothly...
Sometimes, I worry I’m going mad. I’m talking to a chicken, grooming my facial hair with a fork and I could do with a really good meal.
It must be a little after eleven in the morning when I see it. Heading out on deck, I can suddenly sense something moving really close to the boat. Maybe it’s just a chunk of ice. Maybe I’m hallucinating. I keep my eyes trained on the same spot, and again, there’s a ripple in the water. There it is, a seal! With the cutest little round head and whiskers. Instinctively, I think ‘meat’ and ‘dinner’ and duck down into the cabin to fetch my rifle.
When I come back out, the seal is still there. Just as it pokes its head out of the water, I tuck the butt of the rifle into the crook of my shoulder and take aim.
I’m about to pull the trigger. The seal isn’t moving a muscle. It’s just looking at me, not a hint of fear in its eyes. Its handsome face is right in my sights.
I lower the rifle. I can’t seem to think straight. I pull myself together, tuck the rifle into my shoulder again, and take aim. If I land this seal, I’ll have enough meat for the next two months. But still the seal doesn’t move. It could dive and swim away, but it doesn’t. It just looks at me with puppy-dog eyes, and says, ‘Come on, you’re not going to do that to me, are you?’ It really spoke to me, I swear. I can’t bring myself to pull the trigger. I’d never forgive myself. This is the seal’s home. I’m the stranger here, intruding on its territory. I don’t have the right to do this. Or the heart.
