Why not row across the Atlantic Ocean?

When I signed up to row across the Atlantic Ocean, I had never even been on a rowboat. My inspiration was not a lifetime at sea, it was an article in Vogue about a team of women who rowed the Pacific, breaking a world record along the way.

Their team name was Latitude 35, and they spent about a month rowing, without a sail or a motor, from San Francisco to Hawaii. At a time when international travel has never been more convenient, this was an important, old-school voyage. It took grit and sweat. There was actual risk. Instantly, I knew I had to row across an ocean too.

In a world that sells glossy optimization and perfect efficiency, the row was my counterargument. Life is not a problem to be solved, it’s an adventure to be had, and yes, that requires some friction.

The row was brutal. Red sores covered my backside the entire time. Waves grabbed my oars and dug them into my legs and stomach. My body was constantly covered in bruises. The sun burned my lips, and goopy blisters covered my mouth. Anytime a wave splashed salt water on me, it burned my mouth like acid. It was also phenomenal. A little bird followed me from the start in La Gomera all the way to Antigua. She’d fly laps around my boat in the mornings and evenings. I named her Jo March, and she became one of my dearest friends. When I was scared and lonely, a pod of dolphins played with me. At night I laid on the deck of my boat and saw every star in an inky black sky. I jumped in the ocean and swam three miles above the ocean floor. My why not is that we are meant to go out into the world to do great things and experience it all.