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" By Olly Hicks, 24, laborer Last September, Hicks became the youngest person to row the trek solo. He also has the distinction of making the slowest trip, covering the 4,040 miles in 124 days in his boat, Miss Olive.  Before leaving New York for England, I had the worst butterflies ever--to the point of vomiting. Wondered if I had packed everything. Shoving off was a relief. Took about two days till I was out of sight of land. Then the sea turned into a feisty bitch.  SHIP&amp;#039;S LOG Day 25  another day on anchor :(NE head winds. tried fishing today--no luck so far. also tried to spear a seagull--again no luck. In the first few weeks, I faced the worst weather seen in the Atlantic for a hundred years. Tropical storms with force-9 gales. It was like being strapped to a bronco nonstop. I capsized twice.  Day 56  terrible conditions--confused seas. spine takes a good pounding, rowing seat beginning to feel like a cheese grater. . . . caught a bird. unfortunately he was skinnier than he looked--still that&amp;#039;ll learn him to sh#t on Miss Olive!  At one point, I realized I was being followed by a sixteen-foot great white. Must have followed me for about an hour. Suddenly he was ramming the boat. I started screaming, telling him tofuck off! Fortunately, he did. If he wanted to turn the boat to matchsticks, he could have.  Day 64  yesterday was v tough--felt very weak &amp;amp;amp; tired. . . . mold is developing in the water bottles, which lends it a certain tang.  I didn&amp;#039;t go properly crazy from the solitude--okay, maybe a little. One day it took me fifteen minutes toput my boots on. Then I realized they were backward. And I had a spade called Stan. Once I picked up a buoy with a phone number and two words painted on the side: POT LUCK. I fantasized that I had won an enormous cash prize, until I got sick of carrying it and chucked the damn thing overboard.  Day 101  more f#@$%ing NW wind . . . very gray rain all day.highlight--saw a piece of blue foam floating past. The pollution became the most welcome distraction. Imagine all kinds of flotsam: fishing gear, floats, nets, bottles, buoys, an entire tree, a bunch of colorful balloons.  Day 120  at dusk the rudder cable broke (f#$$%$$#@@$^^&amp;amp;amp;*!#)--6 hours faffing about in the dark &amp;amp;amp; heaving sea. . . . not over till the fat lass sings! Once your hands have toughened up, it becomes as easy as walking. I worked it out once--eighteen strokes per minute at an average of ten hours a day for 124 days. That&amp;#039;s 1,339,200 strokes.  Day 124: The End The morning came damp and gray. At around 0800 a yacht came out with a hungover bunch of friends onboard--2 of them swam across and climbed onboard. As we rounded the warship and came into view, shouting, cheering, and foghorns aplenty! I lit celebratory flares and got lost in a cloud of smoke and dazzling flames.  I reckon I&amp;#039;ve got another row in me. My next plan is to row around the world.  --AS TOLD TO CHRISTIAN DEBENEDETTI "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.esquire.com/news-politics/news/a710/esq0806wifl-114-10/>