In March of 2006, I found myself, at 38, divorced, homeless, and alone in a tiny rowing boat in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. I hadn’t eaten a hot meal in two months since my camping stove broke. My stereo was bust. I’d had no human contact for weeks because my satellite phone had stopped working. All four of my oars were broken, patched up with duct tape and splints. I had tendinitis in my shoulders and saltwater sores on my backside.
Yet I couldn’t have been happier.
After 3,000 miles and 103 days at sea, I was about to accomplish my goal of having rowed alone across the Atlantic Ocean. I had wanted to take on a challenge that would stretch me to my limits, to find out just what I was capable of when I put my mind to something. And now all my hard work was about to come to fruition.
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