A harrowing final night at sea caps a seven-year odyssey as two men conquer the Tasman Sea by rowboat—a voyage of perseverance, near-fatal failure, and redemption that ends with a record-breaking triumph.

By Todd Forney

Midnight, March 28, 2025. The Tasman Sea is no longer a body of water; it is a lightless, kinetic void off the New South Wales coast. Rain doesn’t fall—it is fired like birdshot against the fiberglass hull of Pavlova, the 800-kilogram ocean rowing craft Grant “Axe” Rawlinson shares with fellow adventurer Luke Richmond.

Rawlinson cannot see the five-to-seven-meter swells before they smash into them. He can only feel them: a sickening, elevator-drop heave, followed by a violent lateral shove as a breaking crest detonates beam-on against the boat. Each impact threatens to roll them into the black. Saltwater and wind tear at Rawlinson’s eyes. After 22 days of relentless, agonizing rowing from New Zealand, the Australian coastline is tantalizingly close—but in this exact second, it might as well be a world away.

Over the satellite phone, shore-based safety coordinator Ernie Old is on the line with Marine Rescue NSW, shouting over the static to discuss emergency contingencies. If the sea state deteriorates any further, the two men will be forced to abandon their plan of rowing into the safety of the harbor. Instead, they will have to attempt a blind, treacherous surf landing on an open beach. They have pinpointed three possible bailout coordinates, but the rescuers’ warning crackles through the speaker with chilling clarity: these shore breaks are “not for the faint of heart.” Rawlinson grips his oars, his hands cracked and bleeding from three weeks of friction, and trades a tense look with Richmond in the dark. This is not how the journey was supposed to end. For a fleeting moment, doubt surges as high as the rogue waves around them. After seven years, four attempts, and thousands of hours of suffering, has the sea finally won?

They have prepared the tiny boat for the worst. Every loose item is violently stowed, the hatches dogged shut to preserve the watertight integrity of the cabins in case they pitch-pole. Both men wear heavy safety harnesses, firmly clipped to the jacklines—though the unspoken reality hangs heavy in the humid air: if the boat flips at the wrong angle, a tether can easily become a drown-line, trapping them beneath the upside-down hull.

Rawlinson’s mind flashes back to a similar night years prior. He was alone on these waters, caught in a gale that had, in his own words, “scared me shitless.” That solo attempt ended in crushing failure. He forces the memory back into the dark. Right now, there is no rescue helicopter coming. He and Richmond have only one choice: row.

“Until then it’s ‘Row you bastards, row!’”