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Last weekend, I rowed from the Welsh coast to Dublin—40 hours and 40 minutes at sea with three other crew members. No sail, no engine—just oars and rotation.
This row was a rare chance to train in deep water.
Until now, most of my prep for the Atlantic has been coastal—day rows, gym work, and logistics.
This was different.
This was open sea.
This was sleep deprivation, unpredictable weather, and the constant rhythm of two hours on, two hours off.
Here are three things that surprised me—and have reshaped how I’m thinking about the Atlantic challenge in December.
After the first three hours on the oars, I felt good.
This was it.
Rhianna’s lyrics ran through my head: ‘This is what you came for’.
Then, one rotation later, I came off utterly drained⸺bone-tired.
I remember thinking: I’ve been training for three years for this moment—why do I feel this wrecked so soon?
Lee Spencer, a former Marine and the team member with multiple world records for ocean rowing and two Atlantic crossings to his name, told me something simple that stuck:
“It’s always hard. The first week at sea will be the worst of your life. Then you’ll get into a rhythm, and it gets easier.”
That’s great, but I was this wrecked after just 5 hours, not a whole week.
Still I kept rowing and while the fatigue didn’t vanish, it stopped growing.
Turns out Lee was right, my exhaustion plateaued into something manageable, not comfortable but workable.
Lee’s wisdom aligns with what sports science calls the central governor theory—the idea that your brain acts like a protective limiter, sending early fatigue signals to preserve your system.
The problem is, those signals arrive long before true physical failure.
Turns out It’s not your body quitting, it’s your brain negotiating.
It reminded me that early pain doesn’t mean failure; it means adjustment. Sometimes your body just needs to know what you’re asking of it before it settles in.
With two very experienced ocean rowers on board, I decided my job was to row well and stay out of the way.
But when conditions changed off the coast of Ireland—currents changing, wind picking up—we had to make decisions.
Lee would say, “Here’s what I’m thinking … what do you reckon?” and I kept replying, “Whatever you decide, I’m behind you.”
I thought I was being a good teammate, and I meant it.
But what I was actually doing was leaving him alone with the weight of that decision.
When someone asks for input on a hard call, it’s not just about advice—it’s about shared risk. Its about being in it together, especially when the stakes are high.
By deferring to Lee, I wasn't lightening the load, I was letting him carry it all.
He was just as tired as I was. And while I lacked his technical expertise, I could still contribute by listening, processing what I did understand, and thinking with him.
I learned a valuable lesson: being a teammate, it isn’t just about saying, “I trust you, let’s do whatever you think.” It’s saying “Let’s figure this out together. You have the final say, but I’m in the room with you.”
One of our crew, Francis, had also served in the Marines.
Francis was not a rower by background—his technique was basic—but he could row, solidly, for hours. No complaints. No fall-off.
When I asked how he managed so well, he just said:
“Lee told me the pattern: two hours on, two hours off. I’ve done that before. Doesn’t matter what you’re doing. You just know you can do it.”
Something clicked, its not always about perfecting the specific movement.
It’s about conditioning your mindset to show up for something hard, over and over again.
If you gave Francis and me the job of shifting a load of bricks in a wheelbarrow, I’d probably break down the components of the exercise and train for 12 weeks with isolated exercises in a gym.
Francis would just shift the bricks.
It wasn’t about rowing for him—it was about managing discomfort and getting on with the task.
He is physically fit, but more importantly, he’s mentally resilient with an adaptability that makes him even stronger.
The Bit I Was Most Pleased With
There are safety protocols on the boat: clipping in, hatch checks, handover routines.
What stood out on this row was how instinctively I did them—no second guessing, no faff, just got it done.
That’s when you know the training is working. The basics become automatic, freeing your headspace for everything else you’ll need to navigate—fatigue, decision-making, problem-solving.
That was a win for me. Quiet, but important.
(You may be wondering about our fourth crew member, the equally impressive Philip Theodore. A dashing, American CEO who, I would describe as a manifestation of the best bits the Democrat and Republican ideologies have to offer, all rolled into one man!)
We didn't row together or share a sleeping quarter, so our conversations happened away from the boat—over pints of Guinness. Different kinds of insights, still valuable.
This row taught me a lot—not just about energy management or team dynamics, but about how to approach hard days and hard stuff.
The Atlantic won't be about executing a perfect plan. A plan will help, a bit.
More so, the row will be about adapting, holding steady, and getting through each session—especially when things are tough, tired, or uncertain.
And it turns out: that’s trainable too.
Onwards.
Tom.
