Oar-some bravery on the cruel sea

I flew out to Canada on Monday June 27 and on the Wednesday Pete Bray, a former member of the SAS, Jonathan Gornall, a Times journalist, John Wills, a digital mapping specialist, and myself began our 2,100-mile row across the Atlantic.

From the moment I landed at St John's in Newfoundland adrenaline was running through my body.

The first thing I wanted to do was see my boat, moored up in a small fishing quay. Bright pink, it somehow didn't look out of place among hardened fishing boats that had seen some action. She didn't look intimidated.

As we set off, fishermen leant over the side of their boats wishing us all the best, admiring us for what we were about to do.

In fact it was us who secretly admired them, going out on the perilous Grand Banks fishing grounds, the setting for the film The Perfect Storm, all the time.

It was a lovely calm day - we couldn't have wished for a better start.

When I set out for my attempt two years ago, we left at night and it was incredibly rough. That first night frightened me.

This time we had stars and the sea was flat giving the boat and us a chance to settle in.

It didn't take long for land to disappear. By nightfall, it had practically vanished. It's a funny feeling leaving your keys and wallet behind. Things you would normally take with you everywhere you go, you don't have.

The kitchen table I am sat at is as much room as we had to live in. The space under the table is double what we had in the cabins. We couldn't sit up in the sleeping area.

The north Atlantic is a dangerous place.

We had some awful nights on the Grand Banks. Conditions are so unpredictable. Winds and tides were doing different things. We had some incredible currents that moved the boat in directions we had no control over.

Rowing there at night was like being on a Doctor Who set. Coming out of the cabin was like opening the Tardis to some battle somewhere.

There was no horizon, everything was black around you and the sea was so choppy.

My watch-mate Pete said it was like riding a bucking bronco in the dark with people throwing cold water at you.

We were totally exhausted after two hours rowing. If you had done two hours training like that at home, you would have taken a couple of days to recover. But after two hours we would get up and do it all again.

We were working hard yet our speed averaged just over one knot an hour. It was very frustrating.

We all wanted to break that record. What we needed was the predicted weather forecast for that time of year.

But it didn't happen.

Every time we had knock-backs, we got back on those oars and kept going.

It was minus 10 and we were rowing in summer. It's amazing what the human body will endure.

One great thing about the early part of the row was the amount of wildlife we saw. Pods of dolphins came around the boat and we saw whales.

One day, beyond the Grand Banks, we did 99 miles in 24 hours. We got into the Gulf Stream that helped us along and we were flying at four knots.

But conditions were rarely in our favour. The halfway mark was a particularly hard point for us. It was a real anticlimax. We couldn't enjoy it. If we had stopped rowing, we would have been blown backwards.

There was a current the size of the English Channel, which flowed from north to south with winds blowing in the opposite direction. We had to row across the Channel with the tide and wind against us. The boat was at an angle.

We tried everything. Rowing one-handed was the only way we could keep moving forwards. We moved slower than you could walk for 24 hours.

But we had to get across.

One night we rowed our hearts out, we were shattered and all we had done was stay still.

If you added up all the miles we did in total, we got to Bishop's Rock. We rowed the Atlantic. But we didn't cross that line.

But at no stage was anyone negative.

There were nights it felt like every rib in your body was broken. We were hammering our bodies going nowhere and that's hard. It was like rowing through concrete. The oars were bending.

As we neared the end, there was talk of how many days we had left to go.

My daughters, Brianna and Victoria, had written me letters and I called home once a week. We had some great conversations.

I also had photographs of my family with me on the computer. I looked at a picture of my wife Paula in Bluebell Woods shortly before the storm.

We were told about the hurricane four days before it reached us. We had trust and faith in the boat. Two years ago I was in a force 10 on the Atlantic. We had surfed down waves in gale force eight winds. We had felt very vulnerable, but we knew what the boat was capable of.

When you know something is coming, worrying about it can be worse than actually dealing with it. Our moods changed as the storm got closer. We were quieter, more reflective.

Routine was so important to us.

At midday we had a competition to guess the previous day's mileage. At 2pm we would speak to the weather router. And we spoke to Bob, our shore team manager, who was a great support, later in the afternoon.

What are the chances of having a hurricane at the beginning of August? It came up from North Carolina, picked up another low on the way and sat over us.

Friday was a lovely day. But south-easterly winds had slowed us down to one knot an hour by the middle of the afternoon.

Knowing storms were coming, we made the decision to put the sea anchor out and get the boat ready. Everything was re-packed, padded and lashed down. We couldn't have done anymore to prepare.

One person stayed on deck for two hours at a time through the night giving everyone six hours rest, the most we had got through the whole row.

The first storm hit us the following day. It lasted 12 hours and the boat took it remarkably well.

During my watch I filmed the storm developing. The white tips of the waves ripped through the dark sea leaving blue lines in its wake.

As the second storm neared, the skies became so intimidating. You could feel the drop in pressure in your body. I was 12 inches from an angry sea and watched the battle rage around me.

Pete was on watch duty next.

It was getting dark and we couldn't hear one another talk through the hatch of the cabin.

We could hear the big waves a minute away. There was this rumble like an avalanche of angry water and when it hit you in the cabin, it was just like being dropped in a small box and hit with a sledgehammer.

We were totally in its mercy.

Within an hour Pete was freezing. There was no way we could have a man on watch without him going down with hypothermia or being blown away.

Every fifth or sixth wave was coming onto the boat. It was like being in a washing machine. My head was being knocked around. We were braced inside the cabins, trying to stop ourselves being flung from side to side.

By the time the boat broke up, I was in some respects glad it was over. I was glad something had happened to stop that beating.

I had just climbed into a little well area. I was trying to focus on being positive, trying to focus on staying sane.

All the time there was this straining noise coming from the sea anchor rope. I wondered if it would hold.

We heard the wave coming. There were two crashes. I imagine the first took the rear cabin roof off and split the boat in two. The second rolled the boat over.

The cabin started filling up with water coming in through the vent. It was rushing in quickly. We couldn't have had the vent closed or we would have suffocated.

I was scared of what we would be going out into, but we had to get out.

I came up into the rowing area. Air was trapped in there. I went back under and came up by the side of the boat.

John was there and it was fantastic to see him. We could hear Jonathan and Pete on the other side.

We made our way towards the back of the boat and it was then I saw the back end had gone. I was devastated. It was my boat.

Jonathan had undone his survival suit in the cabin because it was like a sauna in there. But now the suit was filling up with water and he started sinking. Pete grabbed hold of him.

John managed to get hold of our emergency position-locating beacon, which was floating.

Pete dived under the boat and got the life raft and our grab bag packed with all the emergency kit we needed.

Then came one of the scariest moments for me. As I came round the boat holding the life raft, the wind blew me away.I couldn't use my arms to get closer; I couldn't let go of the life raft. I was kicking my legs like mad. Luckily, I was pushed back towards the boat.

We had to get away from the wreckage; we were concerned it would puncture the raft. It was light. It could have blown into the broken boat and it could have blown away.

We held onto the safety line until everyone was inside. We were like salmons flying in there. Pete was the last man in the water.

Within half an hour of the boat breaking up we were in contact with the coastguard and Bob.

We spent four hours in that raft. Pete told SAS stories. I told Royal Marine and fire brigade stories. Jonathan told Fleet Street stories.

John had concussion. He had an open head wound and bruising to his ribs from when the roof of the cabin caved in. Jonathan had hypothermia.

We didn't know what the ocean had left in store for us. We talked about what we would do if the life raft rolled. We felt vulnerable and time passed slowly.

It was the most incredible feeling to hear the Nimrod overhead and see the cargo vessel the Scandinavian Reefer, which had diverted to rescue us.

We had each other and the essentials we needed.

We didn't have time to go back and pick things off the boat.

But everything we had left behind didn't matter. All that mattered is that we were safe and we gave it our best shot.

There is a sadness I have lost the boat, but that is short-lived. There is a sadness we didn't get across, but that is short-lived.

It's about the journey and what a journey we had.

Am I going to do it again?

I don't know. What happened was not part of the deal. I didn't expect to fail in that way. That was the unexpected.

I'm proud to have been part of such an inspirational story.

I know every day is a bonus.

One life, live it.