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The very first owner of my boat was Frank Rothwell, Chairman of Oldham Football Club and, at 70, the oldest person ever to have rowed the Atlantic in 2022.
Frank crossed in a respectable 56 days and raised £1m for Alzheimer's research.
The name “Never Too Old” makes total sense for Frank, but I'm 42 and I hope not too old for now.
On the boat's second voyage, it became “Moxie” and on its third “City of Derby” was chosen.
I grew up in a town south of Birmingham called Redditch, and given it couldn't be more landlocked, you’d think naming a boat after coastal traditions would have passed me by.
But here’s the thing, even I know you can’t change the name of a boat!
Legacy, superstition and tradition dictate that since the earliest days of seafaring, naming a boat has been more than just a formality, it’s a sacred ritual rooted in fear, faith, and respect for the sea.
A ship’s name was thought to be recorded in the Ledger of the Deep, maintained by Neptune himself.
Renaming a vessel without a formal ceremony was seen as tempting fate, erasing the boat’s identity and inviting disaster.
Even today, seasoned sailors approach renaming a boat with caution, with many following the age-old rituals to appease the sea gods: stripping the old name from every logbook and lifebuoy, offering a toast to the appropriate sea deity, and only then christening the vessel anew.
Superstition or tradition endures because the ocean remains a force beyond our control, and a well-chosen name doesn’t just carry your story, it carries your hope of safe passage.
So as not to tempt fate and get Neptune back onside, I decided to return to Frank’s original moniker: “Never Too Old” was (re)christened.
The Choice of Boat Reflects the Mission
In preparing for the Atlantic crossing, I set myself three clear objectives—three anchors I return to whenever I have to make a tough decision:
1. Arrive safely in Antigua
2. Arrive as fast as possible
3. Raise £100,000 for Lewy Body Dementia
The choice of the actual boat design reflects the mission.
In the world of ocean rowing, there are sleeker, newer designs, lighter boats with all the bells and whistles.
The Rannoch R25 Solo is a rock-solid build with an impeccable safety record, and it's rare, with only six ever made.
When one of the race organisers heard I’d chosen an R25 Solo, he raised an eyebrow: “It’s not a competitive boat,” he said.
At first, his comment bothered me, but then I reminded myself: safety is my first objective, and as fast as possible, my second.
Sometimes, a certain design and set-up suits you for reasons you can’t quite explain.
Even though I looked at several designs, the R25 Solo was my favourite, but “Never Too Old” wasn't my first choice.
I’d found a different boat, but a pre-purchase survey revealed she’d run aground with her previous owner and needed major repairs that couldn’t be completed in time.
I walked away disappointed, but if that boat wasn’t ready, it wasn’t worth the risk.
Then, as if by fate, another R25 Solo came up for sale, and I had a rare second chance.
So late on a Thursday night, I made the trip to Derby.
Imagine a 22-foot ocean rowing boat parked outside a house in London—let’s just say it raised a few eyebrows and even more curtains.
From there, she came down to Cardiff Marina, which will be our home base for the summer.
Why Cardiff, you ask?
Training out of the Bristol Channel is tough but Cardiff wasn’t chosen for its easy conditions—quite the opposite.
It was chosen as our base for one very important reason: Jane’s parents live just 15 minutes from the marina.
That means come Friday night, we pack up the car and head toward family, hot meals, and two grandparents who adore the boys.
What’s really struck me is how welcoming the marina community has been.
Cardiff Marina was recently saved from insolvency, and the team there are upbeat, passionate, and clearly love what they do.
But even more special has been the curiosity and kindness of fellow boat owners—people stopping by while I’m working on the vessel, sharing their own sea stories, and wishing me luck.
You know the saying: It takes a village to raise a child, well I’m starting to think that maybe it takes a marina to cross an ocean.
Many times someone’s stopped me and said, “You must be mad”, but behind that, I see a flicker of admiration, and offers of support from all directions—it’s humbling.
The boys have taken to the boat too, climbing all over her, asking questions, and even coming out for a short row in Cardiff Bay.
She still needs about 100kg of race weight added before she’s truly ready, but we’re getting there, and slowly, steadily, the bond between us is forming.
It’s going to be a big summer - training hard, testing ourselves in all conditions, and preparing for the unknown.
But right now? I’m feeling calm, focused, and grateful.
We’ve got a mission: Get there safely. Get there fast. Raise £100,000.
Let’s go.
