Paris 2024: A life changing experience

There are many moving pieces to run regattas, and that increases by an immense magnitude for the Olympic Games. The Sailing competition is the ultimate pop-up event that comes together for two weeks, and then disperses to all corners of the world.

One of the people at the Paris 2024 Olympics was Madeline Mulligan who tells her story:

I’m often asked “How did you get into that?” There are many answers, but only one root from which they all branch. My adventures are founded on the philosophy of my grandfather, Tony Masso, and one comment in particular has become my life’s motto:

“If you are in the right place, at the right time, with the right attitude, and you engage people in a curious, genuine, and meaningful way, the world will open its doors to you.”

This sentiment lives in my heart amongst the values that were instilled by my parents:

“You can do anything, and if you fail, we will love you”
“Preparation is how to set yourself up for success”

Together, these three thoughts formed pillars in my life and have led me to some unexpected and wondrous destinations. Underground 250 meters in Vietnam’s largest cave system. Offshore 250 miles in Australia’s infamous Westcoaster Race. And, most recently, to Marseille for the Paris 2024 Olympic Games at the helm of media boats capturing the Sailing event.

I’ve always done my best to engage people in an honest, genuine, and meaningful way on the water, in the classroom, and when networking. By opening myself to each connection and opportunity, I’ve found that each one tends to blossom into more. In this particular case with the Olympic Committee, it was a combination of luck and preparation.

I first heard about the opportunity from a friend I met by chance in my travels. I took the time to thoroughly prepare my application, pouring over each detail while still getting it in well before the deadline. Then I waited. Time ticked by slowly towards the date the Committee would announce placements.

That’s when a stroke of luck came in. I was in Miami and reached out to an old friend with whom I had coached sailing back in college on Lake Lanier, Georgia. I had always admired her work ethic and personal ethics, and she had grown successful in the sailing world all on her own drive and talent.

Our overlap in Miami was only a few hours and it was late at night. I met her at the hotel as she checked in and helped her carry heavy bags of camera gear up to the room. Neither of us are the “out in Miami past 10 pm” type of girls, so we sat on her hotel couch and caught up on 5 years of life. At some point, we started talking about her significant involvement in the Tokyo 2020 Olympic Games and what she was planning to do for Paris 2024.

Madeline Mulligan

She asked, “Do you know of anyone who can drive a RIB well for photographers? We’re having trouble finding the right people.”

I looked her dead in the eye and smiled, “I’ve already applied.” She told me she would be happy to help highlight my application. We hugged goodbye and I took the redeye back to San Diego. By the time I landed, the offer letter was in my inbox.

This was about seven months before the Games. The preparation leading up to my flight to France was mostly guesswork as I didn’t receive much information from the OC and what I did receive was almost entirely in French. Between the sheer scale of the event and the language barrier, there were some frustratingly vague updates.

Month after month, meetings consisted of a hollow reassurance: “You may be wondering when you’ll receive more information. The answer is soon.”

I sat through hours of these meetings and by the time the Games rolled around, I had no idea what to expect. I arrived at the sailing venue in Marseilles with Paris 2024 advertisements covering the city, and I felt my anticipation swell with each poster I passed. At least I knew I was in the right place!

People had given me warnings about Marseilles, so my expectations were low, but the city wore her long and proud history well in the 21 days I was there. Regardless, there’s no place on earth I could have a bad time in while taking part in something as personally meaningful as supporting sailing in the Olympic Games.

My Airbnb was hot and dark and up many flights of uneven stairs. I pulled open the windows and breathed in the scent of the open sea, baking bread, and smoldering cigarettes. Below, the streets of Marseille pulsed with life—scooters zipping by, the hum of conversation drifting up from a café, and the faint melody of a street performer.

“Bienvenue en France!” I whispered to myself.

I arrived at the venue on the first day, was issued my credentials, and was immediately ushered into a press conference, led by Sylvie, the head of a department that was probably very important but not obviously translatable, standing on a stage with a handful of other Olympic officials of varying ranks.

She introduced herself to the hundred or so volunteers, judges, reporters, and captains gathered as she explained the layout of the event. The “FOP” or Field of Play, was divided into four quadrants called Marseilles, Corniche, Calanque, and Frioul, and each would have its own course and fleet.

On a massive flatscreen TV there showed slides of the types of races, courses, special rules pertaining to the FOP and media coverage, Sailing Instructions, Notice of Race, and other pertinent information as to how the Games would be run. It was a whirlwind of information that I was not previously privy to and my head swelled trying to retain it all.

Afterwards, we broke into small groups and I found myself in another, smaller press room, full of the people that would become my team for the duration of the Games. I understood in that moment the huge favor my friend had done to get me this spot. There were a few dozen French people of varying ages, and three internationals all recommended by her.

The leadership team stood in the front of the room, settled us down, and said “Désormais, nous communiquons en français.”

I stared blankly. A friendly face, noticing my expression, leaned in and whispered to me “from now on, we talk in French.”

I hit the ground running, to say the least. My newfound friend, Clara, graciously translated about two thirds of what was said over the next 90 minutes, but I was at a complete loss for the context of the meeting.

We were each assigned PTT devices (a step up in tech from traditional VHF radios), inflatable life jackets, tech shirts, spray jackets, and given a tour of the facilities including the various spaces for the athletes and the volunteer lounge and cafeteria.

Then came the moment we were all waiting for: the boats. They were brand new off-the-assembly-line Highland RIBs, about half were petrol and the rest electric. We took them out for a spin on training day and I had the rare pleasure of watching the engine hours tick from 0 to 1 as I jetted across the inviting, clear waters of the French Riviera.

Marseilles is gorgeous from the water. To the north we saw Frioul Island, and to the east the Old Port with its white washed buildings and red clay tiled roofs. To the south was the famous Calanques National Park, and to the west, the open water of the Mediterranean Sea. Towering over it all was the Basilica of Notre-Dame de la Garde, inviting travelers from far and wide.

The petrol boats handled extremely well, and the 25 or so of us had the time of our lives getting a feel for the limits of these incredibly expensive toys. Since the athletes weren’t racing, we were able to get up close and personal to them during those training days, seeing how close we could get without affecting their performance; their photographers always pushing us to get “just a little closer.”

That was the first time I had seen the kitefoils in action and they blew my mind. With top speeds of 45 knots and sails that were 70 feet away from them, it was extremely difficult to anticipate their course and plot safe intersections.

On the first day of competition, that concern was validated. I was trying to position our boat to get my photographer a shot of Ireland’s skiff (49er) team both rounding the leeward gate and the upwind mark. As I jetted from upwind to down, I realized I was in the path of the French team, who was in third place.

My photographers yelled at me to zip out of the course while the Safety Marshalls yelled at me to stay put and let the boat navigate around me. Ultimately, they had to sail over my wake. A small hiccup in the scheme of things, but it was a light wind day and with performance at this level, everything counted. I felt terrible.

In my world of dinghy racing, no one went over 10 knots of boat speed and I felt like a total amateur in failing this critical calculation. That night I cried about the incident on the phone to my mom, overwhelmed with woe, wondering if I would be fired after my first day as an Olympic volunteer.

Sylvie called a meeting to see me the next day, and I walked in prepared to be honest, humble, and repentant. I was shocked when she opened the conversation by asking if I was okay.

“I know we put a lot of pressure on you out there, and so do your photographers. Do not be afraid to stand your ground if necessary – you are the authority figure on board. Please ensure that this incident is not repeated, otherwise, I see no reason for anyone to know.”

I walked out with a deeper understanding of why she had been appointed to a significant leadership role, and I was comforted knowing that the Committee had my back as I learned the ropes.

The 18 days from Opening Ceremonies to Close blended together in the way European summer days tend to do. My mornings started slowly with a cappuccino and pan au chocolat at the local café before biking along the seaside to the venue. There, I would attend our morning briefing, understanding between 0 and 70% depending on who was sitting next to me and their willingness to translate.

After picking up lunch and prepping my boat, I would meet the folks I would have on board for the day, most of whom were photographers. Along with a co-captain, I would have between 1 and 4 reporters on board, each one of them with the same goal: get the best possible shots of the sailors from their country.

It proved difficult to maneuver a 21-foot RIB around racing athletes, their coaches, judges, marshals, medics, the Olympic Broadcasting Services, and the dozen other photography boats.

It was critical to be on high alert at all times, not just for where sailboats were, but what country they were from and where they would be in the next 30 seconds, 5 minutes, 10 minutes, etc. Combine that with the sea state, sun glare, monitoring the VHF, and a language barrier between you and everyone else, the days often proved tiring.

Watching top athletes in their element was captivating. The conditions were windy during training, then extremely light for nearly the entire duration of the Games. The Race Committee struggled to get races started and there were many hours of postponement.

In those down hours while we waited for wind, I socialized with the other drivers, practiced my French, did a lot of handstands, and occasionally snuck off for a dip in the sea. The sea state was mostly flat, with one day of rolling 3-foot waves.

Of the other pilots, I became close with AJ, the only other English-speaker, who demonstrated excellent French despite the heavy influence of a New Zealand accent. He kept me entertained through long postponements with endless stories of his colorful adventures, and he encouraged me to be confidently my best throughout the Games.

On my boat, David Branigan of Ireland became my best pal. He was on board with me most days; his third Olympic Games after London and Tokyo. He proved an expert at respecting my authority as a driver while communicating useful and often critical advice. It helped that we both shared a native language and interests.

My afternoons and evenings were full of dips in the sea, balcony sunsets, watching live-streamed events at the Olympic Club bar, and lots of l’aperitif (happy hour). The bubble of the Olympic Games was a thrill to be part of and excitement mounted as the Medal Races began.

I was just a few feet away from Ian Barrows and Hans Henken cinching the bronze medal for USA in the Men’s Skiff event, an upset over Ireland after a penalty at the start. As more Medal Races were completed, more athletes joined for a well-earned celebration. The Red Lion, a local Marseille bar, became the unofficial after-hours venue, packed with Olympians and staff alike.

The most impactful moment of the entire event for me was not the flashy boats or the flashy gear or the flashy medals. It was the Medal Race for the Mixed Dinghy (470), the oldest competing Class in this Games.

I had the Swedish national photographer in my boat, and Sweden was in third rounding the leeward gate on the final leg of the race. The jostle for position at the finish line began, and I joined in the melee of dozens of boats attempting to squeeze into position for the best angle of the finish line. I was immune to the yelling as it was all in French and I had no context for it.

I turned off the motor as the entire collection of stakeholders collectively took a breath, creeping closer and closer to the finish line as the athletes approached. It was a photo-finish for the podium as Sweden claimed third overall, with Spain in fourth.

Suddenly, that one second difference became a chasm of emotion between the two boats of world-class athletes.

On the one side was Sweden, who’s joy emanated from every pore. They pumped their fists, hugged their coach and each other, wrapped themselves in a giant Swedish flag, and jumped into the water along with the other podium winners. I noticed this several times throughout the Medal Races.

During the competition, they wanted their opponents to fail so badly. Once it was over, swimming in the Mediterranean, surrounded by endless boats, flashing lights, and helicopters, they were instant friends.

“Hey that was pretty good racing out there, wasn’t it?”

“Hey yeah good job congratulations!”

On the other side of the chasm was Spain, missing the bronze medal by two points … they looked like they were drowning in disappointment. If Sweden was the epitome of joy, these two Spaniards were the epitome of defeat.

Spanish crew Nora Brugman held her head in her hands and her shoulders shook as her skipper Jordi Xammar patted her on the back. No cameras pointed their way as they drifted slowly back towards the docks, the support they were giving each other a clear sign of the bond they shared after years of training.

Witnessing that emotional dichotomy was deeply moving. In both cases, the lessons of my upbringing rang true.

The people here were well supported and they worked hard. No one competing was here by chance. The grit, determination, and tenacity of Olympic athletes is something I had never seen before. It changed my life. I’m so grateful I got to play a small part in giving these incredible competitors a stage at the Paris 2024 Olympic Games.