Anything can happen on the Ocean. Ocean rowing is a sport that requires full body and mind presence. 

Organizing the race and racing made my brain feel like it was losing track, even leading up to the minutes before pushing off from the dock. I lost my cell phone.  Goodbye tracking device. I left my bow light at home. Hello low visibility.

Fog encircled me in the first fifty strokes, and I desperately turned my head left and right looking for my chase vessel.  The first 500 meters was double my normal speed as I attempted to coordinate on the radio, yell for the boat, and finally sync up on the course.  

A few more strokes and there was nothing. No land. No boats. No sound. Just the swell pushing through and the light tap of blades moving across the water. You start to question your compass. Is it accurate? Am I reading it correctly? 

5000 meters into the race, the plastic on my foot stretchers broke off.  I had nothing to push against.  I swore into the clouds. Nobody could hear me.  Calm my mind. Take my time. Don't lose the wing nuts.  Take them off.  Replace the foot stretchers, and attach them to a small tooth of plastic that remained intact.  The race would have been over for me if the plastic completely sheared off, but that 1/2 inch was the difference between me racing, and me ending the race.  I raced at 3/4 slide the remaining 20 miles.

Replacing the foot stretcher, I settled into my race plan.  Food and water every 7000 meters. 6 stops to the end.

I remembered KC and Linda's advice: appreciate the journey across.  Be aware. Notice your surroundings.  A small break in the clouds and glistening animals were jumping in front of me catching the swell heading toward a coastline that I couldn't see. 100's of sea lions grouped together off my port side, and they were with me for twenty strokes and lost in the fog as quickly as I came upon them.

I mixed electrolytes and water for each water break to hold off cramping that was starting to hit me in my hamstrings and hip flexors. At the halfway point, the swell required an overuse of my legs pulling up the slides to get to the catch.  Each stroke required a stronger starboard finish to correct the port turn created from the passing swell.  Each wave was a reminder that I was so much weaker than the ocean I was rowing on, and I eventually let it go.  Each stroke was a reminder that this isn't a race, it's a conversation with yourself and with nature. 

Goo packets with tape still on the top of them - early reminders of the organization at the beginning of the race - were now sloshing around the bottom of my boat as the boat drain sucked air down and mixed with a banana peel that had fallen off my straps.

Two motor vessels  passed me when I got within 5 miles of the Monterey Marina.  The only way that I knew they were there in the fog was a low rumble of engines and a reassuring fog horn indicating a knowing 'hello' that they saw my chase boat on the radar.  My chase boat snuggled up close to me, and we continued on together navigating the fog with a safety first mindset.

My mom was with me across the Bay in the safety vessel.  She's been a part of my rowing career for the last twenty years, but we both laughed in agreement that this is the most rowing she's ever seen me do - she was usually relegated to the shoreline watching the final 250 meters of my races.  But we were together that morning, me, my mom and the foggy ocean, pulling together for a journey that we will both remember for many years to come.