Mini Transat campaigner Mark O'Connor of the National Yacht Club in Dun Laoghaire is celebrating qualifying for the prestigious race after an intense year of sailing preparation and challenges
So now that 2024 has drawn to a close, and preparations for 2025 are in full swing, let's take a look back at what has happened during this past year…
My objective for this past season was to qualify for the Mini Transat, and I am delighted to say that I have done so. Looking back at the past few months, one word springs to mind: progress.
Back in March, after spending many bleak winter nights and weekends working on my boat, I re-launched her into the water. Within two days, I set off to sail my qualification loop. For those of you who have been following my campaign from the beginning, you know this is something I had already done. After completing it in 2023, I changed my boat, which meant restarting from zero. While this was a calculated decision, the calculation didn't account for the added stress.
Mark O'Connor (left) receives an award from the National Yacht Club Commodore Peter Sherry for my Mini 6.50 Campaign so far Photo: Michael Chester
This time, I knew what had to be done, so I got to it—in freezing cold March. Thankfully, the conditions lined up nicely with the week I had cleared from work for this 1,800-kilometre expedition. I had my downwind sails up 90% of the time. A stiff south-westerly breeze carried me up from France to Conningbeg buoy. By then, a piercing northerly had arrived to bring me back down to La Rochelle, accompanied by the occasional cold front or two.
(If you would like a more detailed report on this qualification, you can find a link on my website.)
Mark O'Connor rounding Ile de Ré during a Qualification loop
After getting back to terra firma, I didn't have long to defrost in the shower before diving back into work. To fund this adventurous dream, I have been working full-time for an IMOCA 60 team, preparing the boat and skipper for the Vendee Globe. At the time of writing, the boat is currently south of Australia on its lap of the planet. This was an extremely interesting job, where I learned an enormous amount, but also a job that demanded an awful lot. At times, I found it difficult to balance my campaign with the work's demands. But hey, you've got to pay the bills somehow!
Lorient before the start of the Transat CIC Race
Throughout my racing season, I tried to get a multitude of people to race with me. The idea was to benefit from their various experiences to improve my abilities. I really appreciated sailing with different profiles of skippers. Throughout the season, I steadily climbed up the rankings too. I was consistently seeing results in the mid-teens, something I couldn't have dreamed of last season. By the last race of the season, I was comfortably playing in the top 10, ultimately finishing 9th in the overall ranking for the two legs.
This jump in results didn't come miraculously, however. Behind the scenes, there was a lot of hard work: training on the water, studying weather and strategy, and working on the boat. For the first time in my career, I bought a new sail! This might sound like a trivial thing, but for me, it was a major milestone. It represented a significant shift in performance and a serious financial investment, given that 80% of my funding has come from my salary.
Mark O'Connor testing out his new sail
My goal for the season was to qualify for the Mini Transat, as stated, but my interim goal for the season was another big race called the Les Sables – Les Acores – Les Sables Race (SAS for short). This is probably the best way to prepare for a transatlantic race, in my opinion. It provides an opportunity to mentally prepare for a long ocean passage, plan a weather strategy, and manage food and water over an extended period of time. It was my race of the season, and I prepared for it accordingly.
Once I had delivered the boat to Les Sables-d'Olonnes and begun my preparations, I encountered an unexpected challenge: a large crack in the cross member holding the front of the keel box in place. This was only a week before the start of the longest race I had ever done—no pressure, right? I managed to get the architect's phone number and explained my predicament. To my surprise, by Monday at 10 a.m., there was a plan in place, and by 3 p.m., materials were en route from the shipyard. I spent the evening before making a protective tent from bin bags. Monday morning, I borrowed a grinder from a local IMOCA team to cut away the loose material and access the damaged area. With help from a very experienced boatbuilding friend, Mini Skippy was back in ship shape by Wednesday morning!
I learned an awful lot in July, specifically that things don't always go to plan. I was really enjoying the SAS race; flying under spinnaker along the Portuguese trade winds is something truly magical. I was getting to grips with how to interpret weather forecasts, manage my sleep, and organise the rhythm of my race. However, one morning during my inspection of the boat, I heard a strange popping sound. I started at the very back of the boat and worked my way forwards with a torch, looking for any signs of stress on the boat. When I opened the sealed crash box, my heart sank. One of the four sections of the bow had become completely soft. With every wave the boat hit, the front would flex a couple of inches. I knew my number one priority was to secure the boat, so I put it downwind and took out the laminate kit I carried in my spare bag. The next four hours consisted of me applying sheets of fiberglass to the area, generally making a mess inside my boat, and waiting nervously for the resin to cure to see the results. The results weren't pretty. Even after applying a repair patch, the boat was still flexing significantly. I was 700 nautical miles from the Azores. Gutted, I decided I had no choice but to head toward Portugal, a mere 100 nautical miles away.
The next week was emotionally tough. Unsure of my qualification status, I arrived in Porto without my phone, leaving me without access to emails, online banking, or proper communication, which only added to my problems. However, I eventually managed to get my boat back to Brittany and the factory where it was built.
After excellent work from the team at IDB Marine, I was able to get back in the water for the Duo Concarneau, a race from my adopted home port, where I had been training for months. The duo was a great experience. I raced with a friend who had also faced problems during the SAS, notably with his rudders. This meant he spent a whopping 27 days at sea! It was great to sail together and laugh about our problems. We had a great race to close out the season on the Atlantic. As the season drew to a close, I did some quick calculations and realised I might be slightly short on miles for qualifying. Having been in this position two years ago, I was determined not to face it again. To gain more miles and guarantee my qualification, I decided to head to Palma, Mallorca, for one last race of the season.
The Palma Melilla Palma race was a 1,000-mile race through the Mediterranean to the Spanish enclave of Melilla, located on the north Moroccan coast. Getting to Palma involved a lot of logistics. I borrowed a trailer to tow my boat through France, launched it in the sleepy seaside town of Argeles, and then sailed to Palma for the start of the race. Thankfully, by the end of the season, my boat was well-prepared, allowing me to enjoy the sights and heat of Palma—a nice treat for November. I raced with my friend Geert, a well-accomplished Mini sailor from the Netherlands. During the race, we encountered a little bit of everything. A large lightning squall on the first evening tangled our spinnaker around the spreader while the boat broached. The next ten minutes were spent trying to untangle the mess with a paddle—a scene that could have passed as a Monty Python sketch. We got the last laugh, however, as the kite came back onboard in one piece. To be expected from the Mediterranean in November, I guess.
On the way to Palma!
We arrived in Melilla in a very tight bunch, with only around two hours separating us from the leader after 500 miles of racing. After a few days in Melilla to recuperate, we set off again up the Med towards
Spain. We encountered an established 25 knots of breeze, with gusts up to 35 knots, and waves breaking over the deck. The unusual thing for me wasn't the conditions—I've dealt with strong wind and waves many times in my career—but the warmth of the waves! Being sprayed full force in the face with 16-degree water was an unexpected experience. We battled across the Almerian Strait toward mainland Spain all night. By the following morning, we found ourselves in 5th position, well ahead of the pack. Then came new wind from the south, bringing the pack along with it. Both arrived near Formentera, starting a 90-mile match race back to Mallorca. Holding off the pack was tough. We managed for quite a while, but a combination of overlaying the last mark and a wind shift caused us to drop three places. We clawed back one position on the way into the bay, leading to a nail-biting finish.
We arrived in the bay as a warm rush of land breeze filled the air, but it was dead calm. We made the final sprint toward the line in two knots of breeze, our Code 0 barely edging us upwind. We were only meters from our competitors after three intensive days of racing. Ultimately, we couldn't gain back those final 10 meters, but it didn't matter. The main goal had been achieved. A wave of relief and joy washed over me as we crossed the line. I had qualified for the Mini Transat. Two years of hard work, slaving over my boat, enduring winter trainings, and countless hours of sailing had finally paid off. I was a little giddy with excitement!
So, that was my season, laid out on paper. What did I learn from it? Preparation is key. This is a lesson I had definitely learned already from previous experiences, but it was good to reinforce it.
I don't think there's such a thing as overnight success. Progress happens slowly, and success has to be earned. I've gained valuable experience this year, not just in sailing. I always tell people that the easiest part of this campaign is when I'm on the water. That's the part I write about for you. Behind the scenes, I spend time writing, preparing slideshows, trawling LinkedIn for potential sponsors, preparing social media posts, maintaining my boat, organizing logistics, and staying fit—all while working full-time. It hasn't been an easy year, but I'm thrilled to see that my hard work is finally paying off.
Mark O'Connor celebrates Mini Transat qualification
Now, I'm looking toward 2025: the year of my Transat. This is what I've been working toward for the past three years. I'm now taking time off work to focus entirely on my campaign and, most importantly, to secure sponsors to keep it going. This takes an enormous amount of time, but the reward is sharing an amazing adventure with my partners and creating new stories to tell! I'm looking forward to returning to France and kicking off the year's first training session at the end of January.
The Mini Transat starts on the 21st of September from Les Sables D'lonnes.
Full Steam Ahead for IRL 946 Mini Skippy; Direction > Mini Transat!
