In December 2024, Nicky and Bob Parr set out in a seven metre rowing boat from the Canary Islands, bound for Antigua. As participants in an annual event called the World’s Toughest Row, their aim was to raise the profile of Pilgrim Bandits New Zealand, a Canterbury based charity that supports frontline heroes of the military and first response services who are struggling with physical injuries or mental health challenges consequent of their service. Bob, himself a 25-year military veteran carrying some degree of physical disability, is the charity’s Patron, and his wife Nicky is a retired Registered Nurse. They live aboard their 11 metre sailing yacht KORU, currently undertaking an extended voyage from the northern hemisphere home to New Zealand.
This story, the first part of many, starts at the end of their journey.
Nicky and Bob’s Ship’s Log, 20 Feb 2025
When rowing an ocean, precision in navigation is not an issue until you are closing-in on your destination. At the start of our Atlantic crossing as team GLIMMERING SEA, the whole fleet was encouraged to “go south, go hard” due to an intermediate weather forecast suggesting unfavourable winds in a few days time. Some crews went for it hell-for-leather; most of us tried our best; some of us were slowed due to unfamiliarity with the dynamics of ocean rowing, or because of malfunctioning equipment. We fell into the latter two categories, so didn’t get far enough.
The consequences of this were, for us, some days spent on para-anchor until the weather changed, a passage across the Atlantic that erred too far north, and exposure to hugely variable sea states that had us struggling to keep our boat DONALD HAILEY oriented towards the west.
Notwithstanding this, once we came off para-anchor on day six our relative bearing towards Antigua only fluctuated by a single degree for more than 2000 miles… until we were just twenty miles out from our destination. From that point forward it fluctuated wildly.
English Harbour is situated on the southern tip of Antigua. Its narrow entrance, almost invisible from the sea, is framed by mighty cliffs. Relentless rolling waves of the mid-Atlantic’s tradewind belt crash against the foot of these cliffs, and dangerous rocks extend offshore along its northern side. Careful navigation is required to bring you safely to the harbour entrance, and in a boat such as ours there would be a real possibility of being swept past. In this eventuality, we’d scramble to make entry into Falmouth Harbour immediately to the west; failure on that account would see us blown on into the Caribbean Sea and headed towards other islands, or even towards Central America.
No pressure, then.
Three days out from Antigua, the weather took a turn for the worse. We could see it coming…. a broad front approaching from the east with dark grey squalls marching ahead, bringing deluges of rain, strong winds and chill temperatures. We found ourselves once again wearing full oilskins as we struggled to maintain our course. We dropped too far south, renewed effort on the oars and clawed our way back north. The boat was all over the place. We became exhausted.
Two days out and the sea state built to the point where we could no longer row without the probability of incurring injury. We retired to our respective cabins to rest, monitor our chart plotter, the VHF and the AIS for other shipping, and to prepare for what would clearly be something of a struggle to bring our boat safely home.
These boats regularly get hit by the galloping white horses of broken seas. This of course throws them around a bit, but – brilliant sea boats that they are – they ride these challenges in valiant form.
Until now.
The wave, when it hit, must have been a monster. It knocked us onto our beam ends, but this time instead of coming back upright the DONALD kept on rolling. Ninety degrees, beyond… a hundred, a hundred and twenty, more… for a breathless moment it seemed like we were going to roll. Everything was falling to the port side… water cans, bags, books, kit, equipment, the crew… anything and everything that wasn’t securely lashed down fell to the one side, adding to the momentum of the roll. And then all in a rush our tiny boat came back upright and settled with a distinct list to port.
As is the way of things in such moments, misfortune added its input to drama. Both of us had been taking a pee, and our bottles exploded like a couple of stun grenades, showering both ourselves and our cabins with a pungent mess, adding an additional layer of horribleness to the calamity of a pretty violent knockdown. It was simply dreadful.
Out on deck everything too was a mess, but fortunately nothing was broken. We’d had the foresight to tie down anything of value, so within a few minutes all was once again shipshape topsides. But the battle zone below decks took hours to clean up. The saving grace was that this happened close to the end of our voyage… it could so easily have occurred several weeks from land, an unbearable prospect.
Twenty miles (32 kilometres) out and back once again on the oars, we reported-in to the Atlantic Campaigns safety staff by satphone, and from this point forward precise navigation became the key to success. It was very clear that even a small error in these final miles could see us miss the harbour entrance. Ian Couch, the head Safety Officer, was monitoring our progress moment by moment, calling on the satphone time and again to correct our course and bring us safely home.
At this point, exhausted and unwell, Nicky discovered her ocean rowing superpower… the ability to steer a precise course in rough and rolling seas using hand lines directly connected to the boat’s tiller. These lines take a surprising amount of strength to operate effectively, and throughout these final days Nicky had accumulated bruises and strains whilst keeping the boat on course. During our final approach she sat for several hours without respite, twisting her body this way and that as Bob wrestled with the oars and almost profound levels of fatigue.
Our final hour or so, bowling along just a few hundred metres or so offshore from dramatic cliffs being pounded by bright blue waves, was unforgettable. A half mile from the harbour entrance we were joined by a media boat, whose crew were bellowing encouragement and filming us during our final approach. We rounded the last headland, skirting as close as we dared to those angry rocks, and then strained at the oars toward the finish.
We crossed the line 65 days, 12 hours and 50 minutes after leaving San Sebastián de La Gomera. The moment was marked by a cacophony of ship’s horns, people cheering and the setting off of flares onshore. We hugged and shed a tear, then ignited our own flares in celebration. Then back onto the oars to continue up-harbour, past all the berthed superyachts still sounding their horns, hundreds of people on the shoreside cheering and clapping, and finally to the end point of our transatlantic voyage at the dock by the Copper and Lumber store in the centre of Nelson’s Dockyard, a UNESCO World Heritage site temporarily taken over for this extraordinary event. We waved a Kiwi flag, unclipped our harnesses and then, with wobbly legs and spinning heads, stepped ashore into the embrace of family and friends, our journey complete.
It was emotional.
AFTERWORD
Today we drove up to Shirley Heights, an old military lookout on top of the cliffs high above the entrance to English Harbour. The view is spectacular, and the entrance to this historic place seems even narrower than it appeared to be from the sea. More remarkable yet was the view to the east. Angry rocks awash with brilliant white foam; red cliffs dropping vertically into the sea; and the broad horizon of the ocean beyond. Did we really row our tiny boat 3000 miles across the divide between the Canary Islands and here? It seems almost surreal. Such a tiny, insignificant speck floating on this vast aquatic wilderness. The DONALD HAILEY had encapsulated us and protected us through all weathers and all sea states. We’d endured enormous discomfort, anxiety and uncertainty over these last two months and more.
Why did we set out on such a venture? Apart from a mission to raise the awareness of the Pilgrim Bandits charity, we still don’t truly know. In a cliched way the sea had called, and we had responded. What did we gain from this, apart from an obscure world record for being old? We’re still trying to figure that out.
Sometimes in life you’re presented with an opportunity to participate in something extraordinary. We leaped right into this, eyes wide open but with no real idea of what to expect. The experience did challenge us both at a very deep level. The memories of our ocean crossing will stay with us for the rest of our lives. The wildlife, the beauty, the anxiety… and yes, just occasionally the fear.
We do know that we’re glad we stepped into the arena, proud that we brought our boat safely home to her destination along the same course followed by Columbus, Magellan, Drake, Nelson and others… and like them, without an engine and largely at the mercy of the wind and the waves.
So, we rowed the Atlantic. Wow! Not many people have. In the final reckoning, it really was something.
Our heartfelt thanks go to all who followed us and supported us during our transatlantic adventure. Your kind words of encouragement, your donations and your good wishes have meant the world to us. We hope you enjoyed being involved in our voyage as much as we enjoyed knowing that you were there for us. Moving forward, please do follow your own adventure paths, whether ambitious or modest. Because after all, we can all go a little further, whether it’s beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow, or across that Glimmering Sea!
