True sailors are modest, they know that the sea is the strongest. Here, in Ouessant, they are even more modest because they are suspicious and they are right. Ouessant, the island at the end of our world, off the coast of Brittany, the sentinel island, the last before infinity. She is more than beautiful, the postcards do not lie. They tell us that the men saw fit to encircle the island with beacons, lighthouses, turrets, because for the sailors, Ouessant, that's it. At the crossroads where the ocean comes to choke, the winds are wilder, the currents more furious, the breakers more acute. It's Europe's Cape Horn and these postcards aren't on newsstands, you have to pick them up yourself. Rare are the points of the globe where disasters were so deadly. Today, the map of rescues has replaced that of shipwrecks. I wanted to understand why. It was quite a cruise, a cruise in the middle of winter aboard one of the most powerful tugs in the world, the Abeille Flandre, which guards Ouessant like one guards a treasure or a stock of nitroglycerin. This winter, the storms have been unparalleled. Careful, it will stir. Personally, I remain convinced that to carry out rescue in heavy seas, as we encounter in the Iroise Sea and off Brittany, there is only a pure tug like this to carry out the rescue. You're at the dock, you're going to do your little tour of town. You have your beep, the weather has been nice for 15 days. Suddenly, the beep sounds, you have to get to the edge within ten minutes. This is also the work of Abeille Flandre and the work of the rescuers. Do you ever get scared? - Fear at sea? No, if you're scared at sea, you don't do this job. No, I'm not afraid at sea. Yesterday's weather forecast was optimistic, it only announced a force 11 storm . In fact, this Sunday morning, January 4, under the shelter of the cliffs, at anchor 'Ouessant, force 12 is reached and the gusts exceed 140 km/h. For three days, islanders and tourists looking for an exotic New Year's Eve have been stranded. Maritime connections are interrupted. The West of France is swept by a succession of tornadoes. We haven't seen Brest for days. On alert from 40 km/h of wind, the Abeille leaves its home port. It's two hours to win to reach a ship in distress. After the sinking of the Amoco Cadiz, the boats approaching the English Channel or descending towards the Atlantic, are required to respect precise trajectories. Like the lanes of a highway, one uphill, the other downhill. It's called the track. Day and night, the watchmen of Ouessant Trafic, the sea controllers installed at the tip of Corsen on the mainland, check the route of the mastodons on their radar. 11:43 a.m., Ouessant Trafic reports that a 180-meter tanker has left the rising rail and is approaching the island. The Capraia is not perceptible on the radars of the edge, the lookouts of the semaphore of Créac'h, the watchtower of the island, have the impression to relive an unforgettable scenario. The grounding, 25 years ago, of another tanker, the Olympic Bravery, just under their windows. Without a word too much, as befits seafarers, they confess their fear. It would soon have been necessary to leave the port, the violence of the wind is such that the tug pulls on its mooring, beyond reason. We are at low tide, wind against current. Carlos, the captain, warns the COM, the Maritime Operations Center, located in Brest, that there is not a second to lose. The Capraia's behavior is incomprehensible, but we are in dire straits. A boat is a building with seven floors and three work areas. The footbridge at 15 meters high, the bridge flush with the waves and the machine under the waterline. Engineers are used to saying that they are forgotten underground and that a ship without propulsion is just floating scrap metal. On the Bee, that doesn't happen. The maintenance of the four engines is daily, we have no right to breakdown. At the time of the alert, three words, three looks are enough. Each of the 12 crewmen knows what he has to do and each is necessary for the others. We got under way in ten minutes and outflanked the point which sheltered us. Now the dance begins. We follow the northern coast of the island as closely as possible, the harshest, of which Carlos knows every stone, to meet Capraia. It never goes very fast, a boat. Even with 20,000 horsepower galloping, we are going just over 15 knots, just over 25 km/h. The current pushes us, but we have the wind in our nose. From where these short and surly waves where we pass in force. The Bee has seen others, he is the only one in the area at all times, to continue on his way when the others take shelter or flee, when the helicopters are grounded. We have the Capraia on the radar and we are starting to understand. Its captain had had enough of rolling terribly, encasing the sea sideways on the rail. He broke the rules, to change his course to catch the waves from behind and tire less. He did not think that the wind would blow him back towards the island and that the shoals would suck him in the direction of the breakers. At the bridge of the Bee, watching the echo of the radar, we are torn between rage and fear, but the absolute rule is not to give in to excitement. You keep your adrenaline to yourself, it's mandatory and necessary. Another 20 to 30 minutes on the road and these men over there, despite warnings from Ouessant Trafic, do they know that they are playing with death? The rocks along this coast look like fangs, has teeth ready to bite. No steel is hard enough for those jaws. Obviously, the captain of the Capraia was unaware that the small island of Keller, clearly visible in this squally weather and which he thought he could overtake without any problem, was extended by an underwater causeway, a scattering of rocks, on which he was going to tear himself open. . You have to imagine the dangers below, the mountains that the sea hides and which tear the hulls, slyly. Carlos and Guitou, the chief mechanic, are appalled. In this furious weather and so close to the stones, it will be difficult, if not impossible, to hitch a trailer before the unwary goes to the coast. The Capraia continues on its way as if nothing had happened. Will it pass? 12:22 p.m., it passed within five minutes, within 2,000 meters. The slightest damage and it would be finished. On the Bee, little by little, relief sets in, as one exhales violently after having held one's breath. Carlos is not fooled, the crazy oil tanker still has surprises in store for him. 12:27 p.m., Ouessant is behind us. The two ships are side by side, Carlos takes things in hand and he is not at the end of his troubles. The Capraia is preparing to sail up the English Channel and persists in wanting to skim the coast, that of the continent this time. It goes towards the extreme rocks of Finistère. Not just any, those of Portsall. Carlos anticipates, calculates the drift, estimates the effect of the currents and warns Ouessant Trafic. At this rate, the ghost of an oil tanker transformed into a wreck for 20 years, risks resurfacing. The most infuriating thing is that the maneuver is simple at this stage. If he wants to, the tanker only has to give the helm a turn to regain 15 degrees to the left and he would be safe. Ouessant Trafic's signalman addresses offenders with deliberate courtesy. It is for information that he points out to him the dangers which await him and he asks him to return if possible, to the route of the rail. This restraint when everyone would want to insult the irresponsible, is the result of calculation and experience. There's no need to freak out. Care is taken not to provoke, in the commander of the dangerous boat, a reflex of hurt vanity. The function of the Bee is not to police, it consists in preserving, escorting, saving. Carlos expects, to directly advise his colleague on the Capraia, that the latter has heard the message of the signalmen of the sea, but he has a hard ear, the colleague. You have to tell him twice rather than once that his path is aberrant and fatal. In the long run, with wear, it yields. Finally, he listens, he obeys, he undertakes to do his best. He takes, a little late, the measure of his fault and guesses, at the same time, that the fine, at the first stopover, risks being steep. So it spins smoothly and rounds the corners. At the Passerelle de l'Abeille, we think no less, but the result is there, and it's the result that counts. According to Carlos' formula, the right maneuver is the one that succeeds. 3:30 p.m., end of the game, the tanker is holding its course, but no boat is safe from a blackout, a generator failure which deprives it of energy. It's no more serious than shots that jump in a house, in a quarter of an hour, the current is back. The problem is that in a quarter of an hour the tanker would be on the rocks. We escort him until he has parried the dangers and found the ramp to his highway. The object of the game, basically, would be for nothing to happen. He took a road, skimmed the coast, but what he still doesn't know is that there's a very strong ebb, so he's going to bring it back towards the rocks. In addition, here we are in depths of 100 meters, but over there, we are in depths of 30 meters, so we will have a breaking sea. He won't be able to come back then. I got in touch with him to explain to him what awaited him at the end, and to make him understand that if he had to gain ten degrees better heading, it was now. Because afterwards, he would have no escape if he wanted to come back, with the sea askew. No towing, nothing spectacular and yet Operation Capraia sums up everything that threatens, everything that lurks here. In a few minutes, the imprudence and ignorance of a few men almost undermined the prevention system painstakingly built and perfected after the Amoco Cadiz. Everything is fragile at sea. When Carlos asked the captain of the Maltese tanker if he had a map, the latter replied in the affirmative. Yes, he had one at the 200,000th. Either, a chart on which one does not distinguish neither the channels, neither the currents nor the rocks. Except for one card, a crew almost perished. The routine takes over, neither blood nor oil has flowed this time. Back to the wave, we ride less, it's time to eat. The grain rises, the return will be violent. There is finally a rescue which was not a rescue, it was the recovery of bodies, which marked me more than others. Charlie, who is on board, was also present. It was when we recovered the bodies of the François-Vieljeux, when it sank off Sardinia. There, I must say that it was very painful, because it was the first time that it had happened to me. In the deep sea fishing, I have seen people disappear. They disappear, it's an accident like the roofer falls from his roof, it's part of the risks. I think it marked everyone for a long time. We took a platform off Sartes to go opposite. On the way up, opposite Sardinia, we came across this perilous shipwreck. I believe that this is one of the most painful moments that I spent at Abeilles International. Me, it took me a year to recover. We have the sea of the wind. Even from the bridge, 15 meters high, the breakers overhang us. The sailors are not jaded, we do not lose a crumb of the show. The boat shakes like a sheet of iron, it quivers from bow to stern. Heavy weather is an incessant dance. An unconscious art of staying upright, of seeking support. It's a diffuse fatigue, which you only discover later, when it stops, how much it invades the whole body and head. In the cabins, we moor the chairs, we put everything on the ground and we sleep in our bunk, arms and legs in stars, wedged against the edges of the bed. During this night, we will be called for another escort. I come back down to earth or rather underground, Confidential defense. These corridors, to which access is prohibited, lead to the COM, the Maritime Operations Center where all the actions of the State at sea are coordinated. The Abeille Flandre is a private vessel belonging to the company Abeilles International, but 365 days a year, it is available to the State, its charterer, and fulfills a public service mission. One boss, one alone, governs and decides. It is Admiral Le Dantec, who combines civil and military charges. It is necessary to submit to a detector, the imprint of its index, to follow it to the heart of the system. Here you are in a secret place which is the command center of the Atlantic fleet, 30 meters below the castle of Brest, buried. There, days and nights, teams watch to command the French Atlantic fleet. The Amoco Cadiz was a general awareness of the urgency of measures to be taken. There, we cannot accuse the public authorities of having remained idly by. The maritime prefects have been given considerable powers, in particular, that of giving formal notice to a boat constituting a danger to the French coast. In this case, the owner and the captain of the ship are asked to put an end to the danger it represents. Otherwise, at its expense and risk, we will take all measures to prevent the boat from causing a disaster. I come back to the formal notice, there is a whole culture of negotiation between the tug and the boat it is going to assist. All that is over by then. You're right, it's over, because the Amoco Cadiz accident, that's what happened. The endless negotiations between the captain of the boat, its owner and the towing companies. Today, the formal notice allows me to force a boat to take the tow. French law authorizes me to do so and we have the Abeille Flandre which is capable, it has proven, of holding a large tanker in difficulty, even in very bad weather. For you, Admiral Le Dantec is first of all a hierarchical superior and a charterer or is he first of all a sailor? - He's a sailor first. When you have radio links with Commander Claden, at the bridge of the Abeille Flandre. Are your relationships primarily hierarchical or sailor-to-sailor? Sailor-to-sailor relationships based on mutual esteem and trust. When Commander Claden offers us a solution to a dangerous or emergency situation, we take his advice very seriously. Military or civilian, civil servants or not, rail guards share the same mission and are first and foremost seafarers, in love with their coasts. What is your favorite bird? - The northern gannet, because it is a bird that can only be seen offshore. Who has a superb sailboat with a wingspan of up to 1m80, white with black wingtips and yellow beak. If I believed in metempsychosis, in a future life, I would like to be a gannet. Tuesday, January 13, here we go again on a weather alert. The sea is rough, but the worst is yet to come. A violent storm, force ten to 11, is imminent. Carlos has a fever and stays in bed, not for long. At 2:01 p.m., the Nautila, an 85-meter container ship called for help. She had total engine damage 4 miles to the west of the island of Sein. For the moment, the wind and the current allow him to hold on, but both will tip over and sinking is inevitable. You have to act quickly, within two hours, the maneuver will be compromised and the wind begins to turn. Council of war as the ship in distress approaches. We take stock, we stop a tactic before taking action. Lionel, the bosun, reigns over the bridge, the territory of all dangers, where everyone must immediately find their bearings. Dominique, the lieutenant, is in charge of coordination with the bridge. He will also send, thanks to the line-throwing rifle, a fine rope to the sailors of the assisted ship. A rope at the end of which the trailer will be prepared. On the quarterdeck, against the wind which reaches force ten and against the unpredictable sea waves, we have only one defense, only armor, the all-weather suit. The rest is a matter of vigilance and reflex. The door is about to open, like a curtain rises, outside, there's a peep. Jean-Marc, the second master, was born and lives in Camaret. His house overlooks the waves that have become his workplace. Lionel and him form a duo well-honed enough to do without rehearsals. To prepare the trailer, the cable that will connect the two ships, everyone knows the sequence of operations by heart and everyone keeps an eye on a possible breaking wave. It's raining buckets, fresh and salt water merge. Sailors call this the grain of the maneuver. Boats adrift, on fire, disabled, flooded, Lionel and Jean-Marc have seen all kinds. The rescuer's gesture is the same, but each rescue is different. They are with their sailors, the acrobats on board. When things get complicated, it's not uncommon for Jean-Paul the cook to come and help them. The men of the machine, sheltered in the reserve, await their turn when the trailer is turned. They are serious customers, the captain of the Nautila, as soon as he understood that the breakdown was serious, made all the arrangements with his owner. The formal notice from the maritime prefect, served at 3 p.m., did not pose any problem. Now it's up to Dominique, the lieutenant, to play, to aim straight. We are not at the carnival, the game can turn out badly. The two hulls are dangerously close. Carlos and the other captain have perfectly tuned the ballet. The Nautila's crew is at their post on the forecastle. They are pros, real ones, acrobats and coordinated. They do not miss the opportunity, the first attempt will be the right one. Yet the wind is so crazy that the seagulls fly backwards. Carlos, up there, sheltered by the windows, does not leave his megaphone. When he was a lieutenant, he too worked on the deck with the crew. He knows the dangers and an obsession remains with him. To lose a man! I think that's the biggest fear, that's it, above all. It can happen at any time, even in good weather and that's really my big fear. Especially since before, I was with them on deck. I know how we worked on deck because we trusted the guy up there. They must not lose that trust. The cables suffer and whip. It's a small thing, a trailer. A brittle piece of polypropylene then torrents of steel. Only a few centimeters in diameter, but it requires giant winches and moves mountains of metal. When it breaks, it can kill by sweeping the bridge. It remains to tame the monster, to tame it little by little. Knowing how to let go, knowing how to resume. Not being swept away by the ship you are assisting is the art of the skilled maneuversman. Carlos and Guitou play controllers with dexterity. Vincent, the second mechanic, monitors the smooth running of the trailer. A crew is a symphony. Lionel dries up, most of the game is won, suddenly the atmosphere relaxes. We even venture to pronounce the word that makes all sailors tremble. Tuesday 13, 13 on board and we haven't stopped talking about rabbits. The Nautila obediently follows the Abeille at a steady pace, six knots, the captain is in a hurry to get the boat to port before the seas are no longer rough. The trailer is submerged and serves as a shock absorber. Breakdowns are normal, almost all ships experience them. We stop, we repair for four or five hours, and everything is back to normal. Around Ouessant, there is no time to repair. The swell is too strong, the drift too fast. The rail is used precisely to push the freighters back far enough, up to 27 miles, for a tug to have time to come to their aid and repeat the maneuver if necessary. After 20 years in Brest, the Abeille Flandre has saved, as it does today, 176 ships, including 11 tankers, seven chemical carriers, two ferries and 37 trawlers. Its counterpart, Abeille Languedoc, based in Cherbourg, has a comparable track record. The cost of a single disaster, that of the Amoco Cadiz, represents 120 years of chartering the tug. At 6:35 p.m., the pilot from the port of Brest boarded the Nautila, which was brought to the dock by the harbor tug. L'Abeille goes back to sea for the night, until the gust of wind passes. Are the boats you are going to assist old? Fortunes at sea, there are, but otherwise... No, you can have new boats that break down too. Is it the weight? Yes. Already, they have gone up the entire Bay of Biscay. It's not the best time-wise area. Many come from Africa or further afield, from the Persian Gulf. Once you've taken a beating in the Bay of Biscay, the boats are tired, this is the area. I have more love for the crew than for the boat. Because in this type of job, the boat is important, it's true. We love the boat, but not the love of the beautiful object, but of something that must work, which is a tool. As long as this tool is well oiled and perfect. We love these boats. All sailors love their boats. Look at this, it will whiten afterwards. It's the Rolls, here it's the Rolls. Everything else is done. It's true that the particularity of towing is that the boat is included in the crew. It is the crew who maintains it, they are the ones who will fight. They are going to do things so that, precisely, it is well maintained, but it is they, behind, who will suffer. If all these operations are successful, it is 98 percent thanks to the men who are below the engine and those who are on deck. You don't strap yourself in with harnesses when you work on deck? It is not practical. If you see the sea swell coming in from the stern, we'll hide behind the winch. If I'm moored there, I can't go behind. That's why we don't want to have a harness or tie up. So how do you do with your guys? - Already, I place them. Since time, everyone knows more or less his position except when there are new ones. Otherwise, there is always someone looking behind. As soon as he sees the heavy seas coming, we get behind the winch or we hang on to the handrails and we flag. Are you going horizontal? - Yes and then you go back. We've been used to it for a while. Sometimes, we still go with it. So you kiss the roll, you kiss the string, whatever. Not the best memories? No, but it's okay, you have bruises, that's all. When you read in the newspaper that you are heroes, how do you react? I think the guys deserve it, they don't dare talk about it. It's true, when I'm up there, I see what they're doing. They are tiny little people in the middle of the water. At times, when we have a big sea shoal, I don't see anyone anymore, I feel like I've lost them all, they're still there and they go back behind. I believe they deserve it. No, we're not heroes. I'll tell you one thing, doubt lives in me, doubt lives in me. That makes me smile. It makes me smile, I think that there are plenty of heroes everywhere then. It makes you smile a little because there are plenty of exceptional men. There are the surgeons, the firefighters, ... - The heroes of the sea. There is no need to feel more gloriole than elsewhere. No, so it's not my style at all. We are not heroes, there is nothing, we do our job. It makes you smile, my faith, if we consider that we are heroes, fine. Oh, that's modesty! It's the sailor's modesty, it's a bit of a general problem. All sailors are like that. Whether it's the fisherman or the SNSM guy. I think that their work on the Bee, for them, is even more dangerous than what we do. Because they have material when they work. They have cables behind it, it's on a tow and everything, it's extremely dangerous. While here, it is enough to be well hung in the boat. It's much easier. You have one thing in common, you go out when the others come in. Yes, that's what we're here for, to hang out. The one who is afraid, he must not be part of the SNSM. The world of Ouessant is a club that does not say its name, that of the brothers of the coast. Nobody admits it, but a mutual admiration unites these companions. It's interesting because you meet people from other backgrounds. We realize that we are no different, whatever career we have had. Between a fishing skipper, a tugboat skipper, etc. In the end, there are no big differences. What are the main principles of the SNSM? The golden rules of the SNSM are special in the sense that here, it's voluntary work. The golden rules are the sailors who will save the sailors and in the corners they know. Behind the stones, Carlos often repeats, there are men. Men who have a culture, a knowledge in common. The volunteers who intervene near the rocks have the same reflexes and languages as the rescuers of l'Abeille, the same patience and the same availability. Being at the quay, in Brest, is also a big part of the job. This is the whole waiting phase, stand-by. For two minutes of exciting action, we spend a lot of time in stand-by, waiting. Spending weeks and weeks, in good season, means a maximum of time spent at the quay. It is true that it is hard, it is hard. Hard to act, hard not to act. The profession of lifeguard is a serious, meticulous, too meticulous profession that requires its counterpart. Coming back to dock between two alerts, two operations, it's weird, it's not really coming back. We are riveted to the boat for 45 days in a row until the relief. We want to breathe, but at the same time, we hate to wait. We continue to listen to the radios 24 hours a day, and we allow ourselves to decompress if the weather improves. Friends, women, children, come on board when it has been possible to warn them of a stopover. The other life, in puffs, surrounds you and touches you like a perfume. Wanderers without shore, some of whose tattoos evoke anarchy and revolution, but he, the Malabar, he who is afraid of nothing. The man says, I warn you I am the master on board, I alone am the master. Among the close brothers of the coast, the captains of the boats of Penn Ar Bed, the company which assures the service of Ouessant. At the height of the January storm, 600 people waited for four days, stranded on the island. On the fifth day, Penn Ar Bed officials sent their two sturdiest ships to Ouessant to deliver the prisoners. The Bee is there, standing guard. Carlos and his crew trust their colleagues, many of whom have sailed on the tug, but in this weather our presence is reassuring. Perhaps the little port of Le Stiff has never known such a rush. Fortunately, the candidates for the voyage do not discern, like us, in which cauldron of the devil the two ferries which arrive one after the other, empty, are struggling. You have to be on the Bee to see that. Boarding is carefully planned in groups of ten and the boats leave, each loaded with 300 passengers packed like sardines on the breakers. The maneuver is flawless. At the Abeille footbridge, we observe on the alert, the incredible combination of current and wind, in the channel which separates Ouessant from Molène, its neighbour, and which is called Fromveur. In Breton, it means the great current.
