As I looked over the stern of our ocean rowboat in the pitch darkness of night, a mountain seemed to rise behind us.
But it wasn’t a mountain. It was a huge wave 20 feet high, and the whiteness on top was not snow, but a raging torrent of breaking water. Fear gripped my stomach as it rose higher and higher.
I held my breath, waiting for the dreaded ‘pitchpole’ – when the boat fails to get over the crest of the wave and is knocked headlong back by the force of the ocean. It is much more dangerous than a normal capsize.
We were soaked when the wave washed over us. But miraculously, Mrs. Nelson, our boat, withstood the force. In a low voice I said to Pippa, the skipper of our four-man crew (The Mothership), “Shall we put on our life jackets now?”
“I think we should,” she replied, equally afraid of the elements.
It was the only time we put them on during our 40 day drive from La Gomera in the Canary Islands to Antigua in the Caribbean, as part of the Talisker Whiskey Atlantic Challenge. That night I thought, ‘How on earth did I get here?’
I suffer from it anxiety since I was a little kid – my worries were mostly caused by things I read about, from nuclear war to heart disease. For years I couldn’t get on a plane without hyperventilating, I was so afraid it would crash on takeoff. I still can’t bear that feeling of enclosed claustrophobia.
As a teen in the 80’s, I had such a fear of germs that my friends gave me an early self-help book about OCD: The boy who couldn’t stop washing. My chronic health anxiety made being pregnant terrifying and I became convinced that I would accidentally get toxoplasmosis.
Four years ago, I was fired from my job as a magazine editor. I hit the bottom without an ounce of bounce. It was as if someone had turned off an adrenaline tap overnight, but I couldn’t function without it. I constantly felt like I was in fight or flight mode, but faced with the brutal reality that I no longer had to make decisions and no one cared what I thought.
I was afraid I would leave my two children, Inès, 15, and Vincent, 13, motherless, and had to face my mortality by making a will with my husband Fred
In the aftermath, as I rebuilt my career as a freelance journalist, even a thoughtlessly worded email could send me into a pit of paranoia. I would assume I had done something wrong and would constantly reread emails, looking for hidden meanings or insults.
But in 2019 I was invited to write about a paddle boarding competition on Lake Annecy in France, and I joined one of the crews. I met Debra Searle, who had rowed solo across the Atlantic when her husband was rescued from their boat after 13 days at sea, suffering from uncontrollable fear of the water.
Her description of the race, and the grueling regime of two hours on, two hours off, intrigued me. I wondered if I could handle such a challenge – and our conversations planted a seed in my head. Inspired, I started rowing again for the first time since 1995, after ten years running marathons. I’d rowed in college, competed in the Women’s Boat Race for Oxford, but had hung up on my oars a year after graduating. But I discovered that it was wonderful to be in a boat again.
I interviewed Kelda Wood, 47, the first disabled woman to row the Atlantic alone, and Pip Hare, 48, who completed the Vendée Globe, a round-the-world yacht race, in 95 days with snippets of 20 minutes of sleep.
The message was clear: adventure is for middle-aged women. When my friend Jo Blackshaw, who I’d rowed with in uni, called in June 2021 to offer me a place on the mothership after someone dropped out due to injury, I was willing to accept.
But that doesn’t mean I didn’t have doubts. It’s so hard to imagine what it would be like to be on the ocean that saying yes was overwhelming — and it took me a weekend on the boat to convince myself.
The training—120 hours on the water, survival at sea, and lifesaving—forced me to face my worst fears. We practiced in a life raft in full survival suits and were shown pictures of a boat floating upside down.
I was afraid that I would leave my two children, Inès, 15, and Vincent, 13, motherless, and had to face my mortality by making a will with my husband Fred, 46. I don’t think you’d like a challenge like enter into these without accepting that you might die.
At night, I couldn’t help but catastrophize, reenacting a scene where the boat flips over and I’m stuck in the cabin. Despite this, I never considered quitting even though I was the crew pessimist. Before we left on December 12, I diligently prepared for disaster, and had everyone practice man-over-board drills.
But what I discovered when we were there is: if you always imagine the worst, you’re less afraid of a dangerous situation. The survival instinct takes over and you adapt. We normalized life on the boat, played music, sang along with Peter Andre and had endless stupid conversations about everyday things.
Every night brought an element of danger, because in the dark you can’t see the threats around you. At any moment we ran the risk of being spied on by a blue marlin, like four boats in the previous year. That’s not a pleasant thought while you’re trying to sleep, but I’ve been able to put it in the back of my mind.
When we arrived on January 21, I felt on top of the world. We had made it in one piece, albeit with sore buttocks and stiff hands.
Completing the race – we came 13eout of 36 – was life changing. I feel like I can do anything now – and hunger for more.
In May I went to the Côte d’Azur to climb the Tête de Chien, above Monaco, and abseil from the top. Then another opportunity came my way: would I love to be one of the many journalists joining 80 women trying to break the world record for the longest women-only rope climb in Switzerland’s Saas-Fee? Naturally! This time there was no hesitation – because I know that I will be able to withstand my fears.
On June 17, five months after my return from the ocean, I was 4,164 meters above sea level on a narrow, meter-wide ridge on top of a mountain, the Breithorn. It felt exhilarating – especially since the climb had taken me more out of my comfort zone than the line. I find it comforting to be on the water, even on a boat 1500 miles in the middle of the Atlantic with no one around, but on a mountain it’s the thought that one wrong step can end in disaster that disturbs me .
Even the training day, on a glacier torn by huge fissures, was terrifying. If I tried to cross a narrow, foot-wide ice bridge, I would stick my foot through the snow into thin air. Frozen snow bridges were thawing due to the heat wave.
Luckily I fell back to solid ground – but looking down, I could see the echoing emptiness of the fissure below, tens of meters deep. I could have tumbled in and lingered so easily. But don’t let that thought bother you – I couldn’t help but take a deep breath and carry on.
The next day we slowly and steadily conquered the Breithorn together. I discovered that mountaineering is a unique strength: you are stuck together in case you fall on a steep slope or in a crevice, and it requires intense teamwork to move together as one.
At the age of 51 I have now crossed an ocean and reached my first 4000m peak. I did what the title of the book that used to be on my parents’ bookshelf told me to do: I felt the fear and did it anyway.
When my father, who had OCD, died, I realized he’d been worried all his life, and what for? Nothing. We cannot control the uncontrollable. Feeling fear is a natural part of life, and I will always experience it. But the difference is that I now have the confidence to overcome it.
Becoming an adventurer in my 50s means making up for the opportunities I’ve missed out on because of fear. To live life to the fullest, we must take a step into the unknown. I now know that the rewards always outweigh the risks.
For more information on the world record climb, seehere.
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