Ananya Prasad crosses the finish line at Antigua in the Caribbean.
Credit: World's Toughest Row
That inexplicable, uneasy feeling before a long trip, the worry of missing an alarm or forgetting to pack something, was all too familiar as I lay awake in the Spanish island of La Gomera.
This time, however, the trip I was embarking on was a 4,800 km solo and non-stop row across the Atlantic Ocean in a boat just seven metres long.
Every year, in December, people from around the world take part in an ocean rowing event called the ‘World’s Toughest Row’; this is done solo or in teams. Contestants row unsupported and continuously from La Gomera to Antigua, an island in the Caribbean.
For most, the word ‘ocean rowing’ conjures up images of flimsy kayak-type boats and rafts that belong in films like ‘Life of Pi’. My ocean-rowing boat was a durable one made of fibreglass, built to withstand the tough marine environment. It was kitted out with all the equipment necessary for the crossing, with two watertight cabins for rest and storage, solar panels to power the onboard navigation, radio and communication equipment, and lastly but most importantly, a machine that converts seawater into drinking water.
For safety, such boats are designed to re-right themselves in the event of a capsize. Despite all the advances in nautical gadgetry, boat design training undertaken for this relatively new form of adventure sport — rowing 4,800 km across the Atlantic — is still almost like travelling from Kashmir to Bengaluru and back again. With waves that rise to 30 ft, sleep deprivation, isolation and the forces of the ocean to contend with, it is no easy feat.
With my avid interest in mythology, I gave myself the team name of ‘Atlantic Odyssey’, inspired by Homer’s epic poem ‘The Odyssey’. I named my boat after the protagonist, Odysseus, who faced many trials and tribulations sailing home from the Trojan War. The word ‘odyssey’ means a long and arduous nautical journey.
I may not have battled mythical creatures or sirens, but the journey more than lived up to its name as the ‘World’s Toughest Row’.
Island days
As I lay awake the night before the row, my mind went back to the 10 days I had spent on the island — I asked myself if I was ready for the vast unknown.
The days in La Gomera before the start offer an opportunity for final preparations and inspections of the boat. That is where you also meet your fellow rowers. Despite making the cut after countless hours of physical, mental and technical training, it was only natural for me to compare myself with the other 37 teams and soloists. In my mind, they were better prepared, stronger, tougher, and more confident.
To top it off, the daily morning briefings by the head safety officer were peppered with warnings on how challenging the first few days would be. It was necessary to keep any overconfidence and complacency in check. For me, however, it induced sheer terror. To say that I was nervous and lacked confidence was an understatement. Self-doubt crept in as we got closer to the day.
Setting off
Finally, it was time. Any emotion- filled farewells to family at the start line were numbed by the stress and turmoil of the previous week. As I saw boat after boat leaving the harbour, I desperately wanted to get it over with and head into the horizon.
For me, being in the natural environment brings a sense of calm. But this time, after days of apprehension and overthinking the small things, the sense of contentment and freedom was sudden. This was not to say the conditions were easy; the race started a day early due to challenging incoming weather conditions, and seasickness set in within hours. Yet, the meditativeness of rowing amid the strong winds and waves was refreshing, a respite from the panic of preparation.
Nature’s wonders
The two weeks that followed were a mix of childlike wonder at encountering such a new environment and the gifts of nature. I witnessed moonbows, meteor showers, spectacular sunrises, and a curious killer whale. Every day was a novel siege on the senses. Surfing the boat down the towering waves was thrilling yet frightening. Sometimes, I feared the boat would capsize. The sea and the waves would change every day. This made the blue and grey monotony of the environment interesting.
These first few days were also some of the toughest. Whatever mental discomfort and doubts I had faced on land gave way to seasickness, sleep deprivation, exhaustion and fear.
Extreme conditions
Part of the training for a row involves preparing yourself for the physicality of it and for things going wrong or breaking. But nothing quite prepares you for life at sea, especially when you are alone and in a small boat. Difficult wind conditions meant, at times, I couldn’t row in the direction I needed to go. I was pushed northwest instead of southwest.
Sometimes, the harsh winds and choppy waves pushed my boat sideways to 70 degrees. They threatened to throw my deck and me into the churning sea. Twice, the boat suffered a ‘knockdown’ where it went into the water sideways, beyond 90 degrees. I was soaked in sea water and so was everything on the deck. The incident added new bruises to my already black and blue limbs.
I was always fastened to the boat with a harness. So there was never a chance of being washed away, but the experience was nonetheless acutely frightening for someone who had never been more than a few miles from the shore.
Being a solo rower also meant little sleep when the conditions were against me. The point was to row away from land as quickly as possible, and that meant compromising on sleep.
Eating solid food became a challenge due to the intense seasickness from the rolling waves. Naturally, my energy levels took a hit. One of the warnings we were given before departing was that things on the boat were bound to break. This is inevitable no matter how skilled a rower is — it is a matter of when, and not if.
Day 10 onwards, something on the boat, large or small, would break down every day. I spent hours fixing my watermaker, my only source of drinking water, and various other mechanisms on the boat.
One day, two of a total of four oars were snapped like toothpicks by the unrelenting waves. They were made from fibre and bullet-proof material. My seemingly unyielding optimism, which I have always prided myself on, threatened to shatter completely.
When the second oar broke during a knockdown at night, I starkly remember sitting in my cabin in complete silence. I was soaked in sea water, shivering head to toe from the adrenaline of being thrown into the inky sea, wondering how on earth I was going to get through weeks of this. To make matters worse, I realised that my freshly opened packet of dried mango, a rare commodity at sea and my only stash, had been washed overboard.
Finding balance
If the following few weeks taught me anything, it was that difficult situations get better. The tough conditions eased, my body and seasickness adjusted, and I was able to get into a loose routine of rowing, resting and sleeping.
The weather became calmer and hotter, which offered its own challenges, but it was during these weeks that I was able to truly appreciate my surroundings. Cloudless, warm days and quiet seas made progress difficult as every mile had to be fought for. Yet, these were the nights when the sky would open into a starry dome so vast, I could easily have marvelled at it every minute of the row and not grown bored. The disturbance in the water by the oars created sparkling bioluminescence, giving the effect of rowing through space.
There was an abundance of wildlife in the form of flying fish, a large whale, several birds and even a moth. I was comfortingly accompanied by one storm petrel from day 7 to day 49. I affectionately named it Penny the petrel. It would fly around the boat every single day and disappear. The greatest of challenges came every 10 days when I was required to jump into the water (still tethered to the boat for safety) and clean small barnacles that would form underneath the boat. I have always had a fear of deep water. To jump off into 5 km deep water, I had to really steel my nerves. By the sixth time, it became easier but it was never enjoyable.
Dealing with isolation
While most people’s experience of isolation is an involuntary, Covid-induced stint in a bedroom, solitude framed by vast night skies and rolling waves was something else entirely. Perhaps growing up in the UK as an only child of two busy parents, I had learnt to find contentment in my own company. Or perhaps, loneliness is found not so much in physical separation from humans but in the lack of human connections.
Access to satellite phones, WhatsApp and the Internet offered many opportunities to speak to family and friends. The team of safety officers, weather router and media manager were also within reach throughout. I relished the unique opportunity of being so far from civilisation, knowing that the distance was not permanent.
As I got closer to the end of the row, complacency kicked in. I assumed the greatest trials were behind me. But renewed stormy conditions and strong winds were predicted, and I had to figure out a way to fix my broken oars. There was every possibility another would break. I am not an engineer. I had basic tools and had never used them before. Fixing the oars in strong winds with waves crashing over me had me screaming and swearing at the ocean.
Jumping in
The final and most dangerous challenge came when my boat’s rudder, a vital part of the boat, broke off in waves rising 25 feet. I had to enter the water in extreme conditions to fit a rudder into a shaft that was less than two inches in diameter. In the rolling waves, the 700 kg boat could have bounced on my head. Dealing successfully with this situation, albeit with the safety officer on the phone, had a profound effect on my self-confidence.
When I set out on this challenge, I had aimed to show that humans were capable of more than they realise, both mentally and physically. This message was driven home to myself as much as to anybody else.
Arriving in Antigua after 52 days, five hours, and 44 minutes, there were clear physical changes in me because of the demands of being at sea, but more enduring was the mental transformation. I happened to be the only female solo contestant, and finishing second in the solo category was proof that background, gender or even abject fear need not be a limiting factor for any endeavour.
When I started this journey, I was as ignorant of the power of the ocean as I was of my own will. At sea, without the regular demands of daily life, I was able to fully immerse myself in the moment. I experienced the raw beauty of the ocean and its ability to break down any façade or pretense. It was brutal in its indifference to my moods.
The challenges, in the end, were necessary to forge mental resilience. The sea ultimately became a friend I reluctantly said goodbye to.
Creating history
Bengaluru-born Ananya Prasad created history by becoming the first woman of colour to complete a solo
row across the Atlantic ocean. The 34-year-old set off from La Gomera in the Spanish Canary Islands on
December 11, 2024, and reached Antigua in the Caribbean on February 1, 2025. Ananya, who moved to the UK with her parents Dr Poornima Prasad and Dr Shiva Prasad when she was 6, is the granddaughter of noted Kannada poet G S Sivarudrappa.