This year I had the opportunity to race alongside Emely Hagen for the 350-nautical-mile lap around Gotland. While we had spent the spring coaching together, running race clinics and training on my Diva 399, this race would be sailed aboard Emely’s Figaro 2 – a boat that had been sitting ashore for two and a half years before being launched just over a week before the start.
Getting the boat race-ready became a race in itself.
The days leading up to the start were filled with long hours replacing equipment, updating systems, solving unexpected problems, preparing weather files, discussing tactics, completing safety checks, organising logistics and provisioning the boat. On our delivery sail to Sandhamn, we managed to hoist the jib and verify that most of the instruments were working. The wind sensor was installed the day before the start. Everything else would effectively be tested for the first time during the race itself.
It wasn’t the most conventional preparation, but it certainly added to the adventure.
A race unlike any other
Gotland Runt occupies a unique place in offshore sailing. It is too short to settle into the rhythm of a true endurance race, yet too long to be sailed at the all-out intensity of a coastal race. Instead, it sits somewhere in between, allowing you to push yourself to your absolute physical and mental limits.
For two and a half days there is little room for recovery. Sail changes come one after another, sleep is reduced to the bare minimum, and every tactical decision matters.
As Swedish sailor and writer Richard Wästberg puts it in the article “What’s the thing with Gotland Runt, really?”, offshore racing has been described as “perhaps the world’s most uncomfortable way of becoming completely exhausted.” Yet every summer, hundreds of crews willingly line up for the start of Gotland Runt.
Once you’ve done it, you understand why.
Beyond the spectacular sunsets and tactical chess match, the race becomes something much bigger. As Wästberg writes, “Gotland Runt is a psychological and emotional reset that is difficult to find anywhere else in modern life.
The moment you leave the dock, your world becomes remarkably small. The endless notifications, deadlines and expectations ashore simply disappear. All that remains is the boat, the wind, the sails, your teammate and the sea.
There is no room to think about work emails or unpaid bills while wrestling sails on a dark foredeck. Your mind is forced into complete presence.
It is a brutal – but remarkably effective – form of mindfulness.”
Trust above everything
More than anything, double-handed racing is built on trust.
You depend entirely on one other person. Every manoeuvre, every sail change, every watch, every tactical discussion relies on complete confidence in your teammate. You need to communicate clearly, make decisions together and trust each other when sailing solo on deck. Finding the most efficient way to handle every situation as a team becomes just as important as boat speed.
Richard Wästberg captures it perfectly:
“On board, the individual disappears. You become completely dependent on the person next to you making the right decision in the middle of the night while you’re asleep.”
That trust became one of the keys of the race.
A flying start
We couldn’t have asked for a better beginning.
Our start was flawless, and we found ourselves leading the fleet almost immediately after the gun. Whatever happened during the following 350 miles, we both agreed we would hold onto that moment.
Then the real work began.
As the sun set over the horizon, painting the sky and sea a brilliant shade of orange – beautiful enough to bring tears to your eyes – the opening night became a blur of constant sail changes as the shifting conditions demanded continuous adjustments. We quickly lost count.
Petit up. Jib down. Jib up. Petit down. Grand up. Jib down. Repeat.
Sleep quickly became a luxury.
Fortunately, we managed to keep ourselves fuelled. Our surprisingly enjoyable race menu consisted of water-heated ready-made Gooh meals, noodles, bread, cheese, cucumber, carrots, apples, drinking yoghurt, instant coffee and more snacks than either of us would care to admit.
On the leg between Svenska Högarna and Fårö Lighthouse, I had placed the waypoint just outside the lighthouse, where I thought the water was deep enough. That turned out to be an expensive lesson in miscalculation. We sailed lower than the rest of the fleet and surely lost around fifteen minutes on that leg. I was furious with myself and promised that next time I’d put the waypoint on the lighthouse – not in the water. The following day was spent catching back up with the fleet.
Heavy beating at Hoburgen… as always
The rounding of Hoburgen once again delivered exactly what it is known for. Heavy beating.
In the middle of the night, the breeze built to 20-24 knots, requiring changing to a heavy-weather jib and progressively deeper reefs in the mainsail. What followed was five hours of demanding upwind sailing towards Visby before the wind eventually eased once again. I was up on deck, beating through wave after wave as they gradually grew in size. At 4am, I had needed to pee ever since the rounding of Hoburgen, but hadn’t had the slightest chance to use my lactose-free yogurt tub as a makeshift pee bucket because of the conditions. I just had to hold it until we finally got five minutes of shelter from the wind and waves in the lee of the Karlsö Islands around 6 am.
After a flawless maneuver, dropping the kite at the Visby mark rounding, the tactical game truly began.
With light and unstable conditions forecast, our strategy focused on hunting pressure while avoiding the large patches of calm. The biggest decision came between Visby and Alma, where we committed to the far-left side of the course, sailing away from the rest of the fleet towards the archipelago.
It was an uncomfortable decision. Watching the fleet disappear in another direction is never easy.
But it proved to be the right call.
Reaching the Finish
After 2 days, 13 hours, 25 minutes and 14 seconds, we crossed the finish line at 06:25 on Wednesday morning.
Despite having logged absolutely zero hours sailing the Figaro 2 before the race, and despite spending the final days before the start fine-tuning the boat until the very last minute, we finished eighth in the double-handed class.
Along the way we were also awarded Best Female Skipper & Crew and Fastest Female Boat to Hoburgen.
It’s a result we are genuinely proud of.
But the result is only part of the story.
When you finally step ashore in Sandhamn, exhausted, salt-covered, sleep deprived and barely able to walk, you notice that every crew member wears exactly the same expression.
They’re smiling. And so did we.
As Richard Wästberg writes, “By choosing voluntary suffering, sailors temporarily free themselves from the complexity of life ashore.”
I think that’s exactly it.
The emotional journey around Gotland is one of constant contrasts. There are moments when you feel more alive than ever before, completely immersed in the rhythm of the boat, the weather and the sea. And there are equally honest moments when exhaustion takes over and every manoeuvre requires sheer determination. That contrast is part of what makes offshore racing so addictive.
Wästberg describes this beautifully, arguing that our greatest feelings of joy often come because they are preceded by discomfort. After hours in cold spray, a warm meal tastes extraordinary. After days of accumulated fatigue, crossing the finish line releases an overwhelming sense of relief and happiness.
You feel more alive precisely because you’ve pushed yourself so close to your limits.
A huge thank you to Emely for trusting me to helm the start, for sharing this adventure, and for bringing your incredible determination, knowledge and passion for offshore sailing to every mile of the race. It was an experience I won’t forget.
