Crossing | George Kitovitz
I’d just graduated from Harvard, and I’d had a great time there. I was a British guy on the crew team, and my best mate was this Irish guy. We’d traveled a lot together, been all over America, and had some incredible adventures. Then I came back to Europe, and suddenly everyone else seemed to be doing exciting things—some guys from the crew team had gone off to Wall Street, others to China. Meanwhile, I didn’t really have much going on.
I took a sales job in London in late 2008, which was just about the worst timing possible—height of the financial crisis. No one had money to spend. Maybe I wasn’t a great salesman, but it felt like banging my head against a brick wall every day. It was soul-destroying.
Then out of nowhere, Breffny called and asked, “What do you think about rowing across the Atlantic?” At first, I thought he was joking. It sounded crazy but also strangely appealing. He explained that he’d joined a world record attempt leaving the next month. One guy had dropped out, so they were short a rower. Fourteen men in total, some of them current record holders. They wanted strong rowers who weren’t tied up with Olympic training. I’d been a solid college rower, so it made sense.
I went along for a sea survival course, which was both required and a way to meet the crew. It reminded me of when I visited Harvard before enrolling and met the crew team—instantly knowing I wanted to be part of it. These guys weren’t the posh, entitled stereotype. They were real adventurers. One held the world record for climbing the Seven Summits fastest, another had run across America. A couple had rowed the Atlantic before, some had summited Everest, one had done the Marathon des Sables. I liked them immediately. They weren’t aggressive London sales types. They were people I could actually relate to.
Why did I say yes? Honestly, because I hated my job. My best mate was going, so of course I wanted to. And how often do you get the chance to do something like this? You don’t go into it thinking, “We might fail but I’ll learn something.” You think, “We’ll crush it, and it’ll be the adventure of a lifetime.”
We flew to Gran Canaria on Boxing Day, planning to leave within a week. But the boat wasn’t ready. Parts were missing, equipment was stuck in customs. The biggest delay was the fuel cells for the water maker—they were on another island. I spoke the best Spanish, so I got sent to Tenerife to pick them up, which involved a rented van, a ferry, and probably not the most above-board methods.
We ended up stuck in port for two or three weeks. I was broke, so I couldn’t even stockpile much food. But in that little fishing town we became local celebrities. People came up to talk, take photos, buy us drinks. We were “the guys about to row the Atlantic.”
When we finally set out for Barbados, I was eager. Every day waiting I’d looked at the ocean and thought, “We’re going to row into that. Thirty days, and you’ll be there. But it’s a long way.”
We left at sunset. Villagers lined the docks, the coast guard escorted us out. A few of the crew popped champagne, which even at the time didn’t seem quite right—it felt like work, not a celebration—but still, it was a striking moment. Once the coast guard peeled off, it was just us.
The rhythm was two hours on, two hours off, 24/7. Nobody dared be late for a shift—if you were late, the guy you relieved would be late, and the whole rotation would collapse. The peer pressure kept you punctual.
Every hour or so, a rogue wave would slam the boat. Sometimes it hit when you were rowing, sometimes when you were wedged in the tiny cabin with three others, getting tossed around. A few guys got seasick despite the medication. I threw up once on the first day—a banana—and after that, I was fine.
Routine was everything. You’d finish a shift, moisturize, hydrate, eat a ration pack, wash off with fresh water from a Nalgene so you didn’t get salt sores, sleep maybe an hour, then wake up, reapply sunscreen if it was daytime, load snacks into your seat pouch, and get ready for the next row.
The boat was about 50 feet long, six to eight feet wide, carbon fiber hull like a racing yacht. Four pairs of rowers sat side by side, one oar each. Two tiny cabins, fore and aft, each crammed four men lying down. Under the deck was food, gear, ballast. Fourteen of us in all—eight rowing, six resting, then swap. The captain owned the boat. Some guys had sponsors, some rowed for charity.
We weren’t the top-tier athletes, but we had adventurers who could endure. And rowing harder didn’t always mean going faster. With a headwind, you could row flat-out and barely move; with a tailwind, you’d fly even with light strokes. The key was discipline, morale, and self-care.
The first ten days went brilliantly. Everyone was upbeat, everything ran smoothly. Then, on day twelve, late afternoon, the boat suddenly lurched. Shouting. The rudder was gone. It was the same one that had been used on the previous year’s record-setting run. The autohelm still “told” it where to steer, but there was nothing to respond. Without a rudder, we couldn’t hold the bow into the waves. That meant we risked capsizing.
We tried everything. Some suggested hoisting a sail, but others argued it would disqualify us as rowers. We removed the stability fin and lashed it on as a makeshift rudder. It worked briefly, but manual steering in big Atlantic swells was exhausting and unreliable. The captain and first mate tried steering by hand. We dropped the sea anchor—like a parachute underwater—to hold us steady, but the waves kept building, especially at night.
Tensions grew. There were die hards that wanted to go on no matter what, while others were increasingly worried. Could we even row viably? Was it safe? Should we call for help? Some wanted to be rescued immediately; others wanted to keep going. I was in the middle—didn’t want to quit, didn’t want to be the one who called it.
We were in a shipping lane, so the captain sent a Pan-Pan—serious but not a mayday. One cargo ship offered help, but they wouldn’t risk their insurance liability. Our weatherman back in Scotland—Stokey—said the forecast was getting worse. After 36 hours, we were told a Russian cargo ship, the Island Ranger, would pick us up around midday.
We pictured climbing aboard and feasting on crab and oysters. Noon came—no ship. Then they said two o’clock. Then six. Finally, around nine at night, in the dark, with the weather worsening, the ship appeared. At first, we were elated. Then reality hit: it might crush us. They were 170 meters long, 40,000 tons. We were under 15 meters, just three tons.
They had no crane, no helicopter—just ropes. They threw down lines, we tied on, and thirty Russians hauled us in. The hulls smashed together, our carbon boat against their steel. They dropped a rope ladder. I was number eight to climb. I watched number seven go, then scrambled up as fast as I could, losing a shoe into the Atlantic. At the top, I wanted to help pull others up, but they told me to step aside. The last two climbed together, and as they did, our boat slipped under—probably into the ship’s propellers.
The captain of the Island Ranger told us it was rare for everyone to survive a rescue like that. We stayed aboard two weeks as they made their slow way back to Europe. Eventually, we disembarked in Gibraltar.
If I hadn’t gone at all, I think my life would be smaller. Even in failure, I learned so much—how fear spreads, how calm is contagious, how to judge risk, what kind of people you want around when everything goes wrong. It showed me time is the one resource you can’t replace.
And I still want to go back and do it. I’ve agreed with my wife—nothing until the kids are older, probably not before I’m 50. But when I do, I want to be more involved in the planning, the equipment, the decision-making. Some of the guys went back the next year and made it. I’d like to be able to say I’ve done it too.
I was lucky to be invited on this trip with a great bunch of guys. But for now, it remains unfinished business….
George Kitovitz is a former college rower from the United Kingdom, now living in Switzerland. While most of his free time is devoted to his two young children, he still manages the occasional adventure.
George’s story transcribed from a conversation, condensed, and stylized by Chessin Gertler | Photography by Chessin Gertler