Day 30: Position: N 24° 29.80′, W 149° 57.08′ | Speed/Course: 2.4 knots / 241°
There are many reasons to cross an ocean in a rowing boat. The challenge. The adventure. The discipline. But what no one can truly prepare you for—what no photograph can ever do justice—is the sky.
Out in the middle of the Pacific, between Monterey and Kauai, the sky becomes your ceiling, your compass, and sometimes even your solace. With no light pollution, no buildings, no roads—just a 360° horizon of water and air—the sky reveals itself in ways most people on land will never witness.
Sunsets That Make You Stop Rowing
Even after a 12-hour shift of grueling strokes, when your body screams for rest, some sunsets make you stop. The entire ocean glows like molten glass—orange, pink, then deep purple. The sun melts into the sea like it’s being absorbed, leaving trails of color that stretch across the sky like brushstrokes from a divine artist.
The waves reflect the show in shimmering ripples. You feel tiny, but somehow part of something enormous.
Sunrises With Purpose
The mornings feel different. Not just because you’ve survived another night shift in a place where there is no shelter—just you and the open sea—but because dawn brings hope.
As the first light peels over the horizon, it starts subtly—pale silver, then peach, then gold. Everything warms. The ocean, your teammates’ faces, even your mood. Rowing toward the rising sun feels symbolic, like pulling yourself toward purpose, progress, and another precious day.
The Night Sky: Your Silent Companion
Then comes the night sky. And with it, awe.
Far from land, the stars don’t just twinkle—they blaze. The Milky Way arches above like a frozen river of light. Shooting stars are not rare; they’re routine. Satellites trace silent paths across the void. Sometimes you stop and just float, letting the boat drift while your eyes adjust to the wonder above.
There are no headlights, no hum of cities. Just the rhythmic splash of oars and the occasional breath of wind. And over it all, the universe.
One night, you realize you’re not alone. You’re rowing under the same stars the ancient Polynesians used to navigate these same waters. You’re in their wake, under their sky.
The ocean humbles you. The sky heals you.
That vast canopy becomes your theatre, your clock, your calendar, your meditation. And after weeks at sea, you start to crave it—not just the milestones of nautical miles passed, but the daily, cosmic spectacles above your head.
We came to cross an ocean. But we found ourselves looking up just as often as we looked ahead.
From the middle of nowhere—and everywhere—
Grohe Team Ocean
