Transatlantic voyage: Last November, Canadian Tori Holmes and Irishman Paul Gleeson - who had never rowed before - set out to cross the Atlantic. They survived some life-threatening situations and extreme discomfort, and they tell their tale in a riveting book.

Day 36: January 4th, 2006

Tori

In the past week we had been at the mercy of Mother Nature and discovered she has no mercy. I wrote in my diary on December 29th, "How low can you go?" We had no water, and then devastating amounts of water. And we came through.

We were two non-rowers who took on rowing the Atlantic; a student and a financial adviser who became adventurers. Could our relationship survive? Could we get across the Atlantic? Through these days the question was simpler: would we live or die?

Our water maker started to fail. It went from producing 16 litres in an hour to none. Not long after Christmas our satellite phone had run out of credit and the phone company's head office was closed for the holidays. So we could not ring the water-maker technician to sort it out. The filters looked a little brown. We convinced ourselves this was the problem and took the water maker apart to get at the filters, which were screwed into a plastic container. All we would have to do is open the container, replace the filters and that would be the end of our problems.

Unfortunately, nothing in this row was ever that straightforward. The bloody plastic container would not open. We spent about 30 minutes trying to open the container before I remembered a rhyme my Dad had taught me as a child when I would help him build his motorcycles: "Tighty righty, lefty loosy". We had been turning the container as hard as we possibly could . . . in the wrong direction. I sat there trying to open the container with all my might, fearing I would thirst to death if we could not open it. My hands, like those of an 80-year-old after a month-and-a-half at sea, just would not work. It was strange to be surrounded by water and be so thirsty, to have a fear you might die of thirst.

This led to one of our major meltdowns. Dehydration really started to affect our coping skills. We lay on the deck of our small boat trapped in the ocean and just sobbed. At that moment I was the tiny child who had been denied what she most wanted. I really believed my world was coming to an end.

We had fresh water on board, but it was ballast, and under the rules of the race once we broke into it we would be penalised. We decided to continue rowing, limiting ourselves to five litres of water a day. This was truly torturous. You rowed for two hours in the blistering heat allowing yourself less than one-eighth of a litre (we're talking sips here) per shift. All I wanted to do was grab the whole bottle and chug it down. The inside of my mouth was like a desert. With every sip you could feel it rush through your body. For a few seconds you would have renewed strength, not just in the body but, most importantly, in the mind. After those few seconds of bliss you came crashing down, already waiting till the hour passed so that you could have another sip.

Because we had so little water we also had to sacrifice meals. We ate just biscuits and energy bars. We could have cooked using sea water, but you can get quite ill from that, so we decided against it, at least in the short term.

Our spirits started to suffer. Emotionally, mentally and physically we were slowly breaking down from the inside out. We had no water to drink, or for sanitation and washing.

Just when we thought it could not get any worse I developed a kidney infection as a result of not drinking enough water to flush the bacteria out of my system. How do you get rid of a kidney infection? Same way as you prevent it - drink water. Since that was not possible, I took antibiotics for three days and the infection eventually cleared.

Three painful days into our drought the phone rang. It was the best sound I had ever heard in my life - we had contact with the outside world! It was Eamonn Kavanagh, our mentor back in Ireland. He told us all the teams were finding the race difficult. Teams were struggling with their steering lines and many of the water makers had broken down. We were not alone. We did not wish misfortune on any other team, but we found comfort in knowing they were struggling too, and pushing through it. It meant we could as well.

Eamonn called the support boat and told them of our situation. They arranged for Scott, the water-maker technician, to call us. He told us the filter was not the problem. Because the swell was so big the skin fitting on the side of the boat was not able to stay submerged in the water as the waves rocked the boat and so air was getting into the system. Scott told us we would have to bleed the air out of the water maker for two days. We did this and got it working again, but we only had a temporary solution. The air was out, but how could we prevent it getting back into the system? We could not control the swell.

During these two days, we confirmed with the support boat that we would not be disqualified if we drank some of our water ballast. There was a time penalty, which started with one hour for the first five litres and an additional six hours for the second, all the way up to dropping two places in the race for drinking 60 litres or more. At this stage we knew we wouldn't win the race and the bottom line was we needed water to live. We opened only two five-litre bottles and drank them over two days. We learnt later that some of the leading boats had opened bottle after bottle.

We wanted to make our water maker work. It is amazing how creative you can become in an extreme situation. We decided to rig up a service hose and bypass the sea strainer, which sucked the water from the side of the boat. We would manually bail the water into jugs for an hour each day. It was time-consuming and cost us days in the race, but we were like Lotto winners. We had a second chance.

"That which doesn't kill you makes you stronger" was our motto. We needed this confirmation of our inner strength. The weather was ready to throw more challenges our way.

After our long wait for winds and following seas, when they came we wondered had we wished too hard. I looked up and it was as though a wall was rushing towards me. The swell was enormous and unpredictable. Everywhere you looked there were waves breaking, curling over each other. The ocean had thrown aside its friendly, welcoming demeanour. The water turned a surly grey and the atmosphere became chilling.

As I clenched tightly to the oars that bounced up and down and from side to side - it felt like I was in a rodeo, not a rowing boat.

And then the horse threw me. I saw a wave rush towards me and I knew this one was different, dangerous. The boat climbed like a car speeding up a hill in San Francisco. Suddenly the top of the wave turned a light, greyish colour, as though the water had thinned out. I had no idea what was going to happen next. I saw a rush of water coming directly for me, like an animal jumping right at my face. It launched me from my seat, threw me down and bounced me against the side of the boat, the gunwale, and nearly washed me overboard. I could see the boat coming over on top of me, the oars bursting from their gates as the stainless steel rods, which were there to hold them, bent back with the immense pressure.

The boat bounced back like a basketball. The oars had actually prevented the boat from completely capsizing. I was absolutely terrified and in a slight state of shock. We had just come within inches of capsizing - who knows, maybe within inches of losing our lives.

I was also completely pissed off, as the two oars we had lost were the only oars with my Canadian flags on them. I knew I would have to give in and row with the Irish oars.

Paul rushed out of the cabin looking terrified. He had woken up as the wave hit the boat, to the sound of my scream. He saw my feet in the air amid the white foam and was then thrown sideways.

When Paul got to me I was very shaken up. I had whacked my ribs hard and I could barely breathe or move. We tried to call my doctor on the satellite phone but could not get through. Within hours my ribs started to swell and bruise. My nerves were shredded for a while. We had to mend one of the gates that held the oars. I helped Paul put on the harness so that he could lean over the side safely, but I couldn't control my temper. I would freak out any time I looked in the toolbox, as everything in it had rusted. They were supposed to be stainless steel - how could they rust? I was convinced someone had ripped us off.

Huge waves broke over Paul's face as he took on the job with a vice grip in either hand. I thought he was going to drown without actually entering the water. There was pure frustration in his eyes as he dropped a bolt into the ocean. Then the vice grips went in. A wave smashed him across the side of the boat and he landed straight on his back on the metal rails which hold the seats. His face showed his agony - he would recover well, but he had aggravated a really serious injury, a vertebra, broken when he was 19. He got back up and stared down the ocean as though it was personal, as if the ocean had purposely taken him down and was out to get him. He would not let it go - he attached the bolt and saved the day. Then there was a look of satisfaction, as though he was thinking, "I'm MacGyver right now!"

I was in pain and I didn't know what to do. We couldn't reach my Mom, so I called my best friend Jeannine, a nursing student. I had a huge medical kit but was not sure what medication to use. I held myself together for about five minutes and then completely broke down. I could not figure out which drug was the painkiller. The phone line was terrible and I could barely hear Jen as she rifled through her nursing books to check the medication. I felt helpless.

I started to panic. Every time I took a breath, a rush of pain would shoot up my oesophagus. I started to feel lightness in my head. The more anxious I became, the more pain I felt. In this moment I was four years old again: all I wanted was my Mom. I knew if I could just get through to hear the calming sound of her voice, that inner confidence she brings to my life would calm me down.

Paul stopped rowing and came into the cabin knowing this moment was more important than making two miles this hour. I was now at a point beyond any reason. Paul knew he'd have to be the rock, and over the next hour he repeatedly called the doctor until he made contact. It turned out I had a really bad case of acid reflux.

Rummaging through the medical kit I had everything known to man except something to deal with reflux. The clever doctor suggested eating toothpaste. It's filled with calcium and neutralises acid - yuk! If you have eaten toothpaste you will know it's horrible. He also identified the strong painkiller to dull down the pain in my ribs so that I could continue rowing. I had to really dig deep to push myself on, as every time a wave hit a shard of pain would shoot up my ribs. So I looked to my Dad for strength, as I often have throughout my life.

He had texted me for the first time. "Push through the pain, face the fear to Valhalla and back, you're a Viking!" How did he know I needed these words? Later I found out that Dad texted me because of a dream. He said all he could see was my head in water, my hair up in the air like I was falling, and pure terror on my face. The dream repeated itself. He woke in the middle of the night, sweat running down his face. He was thousands of miles away, in a mine in the Northwest Territories of Canada, yet his intuition was still strong. He knew I was in trouble. He was probably feeling my anxiety. There he was, in spirit, to my rescue, as always. So I took the quote and recited those words every minute of every shift for the next two weeks, putting myself almost in a trance. In the end I did what I had to do and remembered: "The difficult we do immediately, the impossible takes a little longer".

Paul

Dear God, could this get any harder? The night was moonless and I couldn't see the breaking swell as it sneaked up on me. But I could hear it, and that was worse. It was like a roaring train coming towards me; I saw only darkness and could not brace myself for the breaking wave.

Out of nowhere - boom! It floored me - threw me back off my seat and belted my back and shoulders off the deck. I spat out a mouthful of saltwater, grimaced at the ocean and shouted, "Fuck you, is that all you've got?" I was up for a fight tonight and I bloody well got it.

My moods were swinging as never before. I am a fairly upbeat sort of guy, not prone to being down or depressed. But there were days on this trip which pushed me beyond anything I had ever had to cope with. Sometimes I just broke down. On day 46 I wrote in my diary:

"Very tired and drained today, ocean is very rough, it seems like this gets harder and harder every single day. Pup (my pet name for Tori) also feeling quite low today. Read Duggan's letter (Philip Duggan, a close friend) to pick us up; very thoughtful letter with lots of quotes from famous people about persistence and keeping going when things get tough.

It did help, but then it seems the ocean senses you are feeling better and goes even more mental at you. I swear she's a bloody mind-reader. Ate a Mars bar out of our grab-bag today around 3pm as a pick-me-up . . . I read Dad's letter again to lift me, broke down in tears at the end of it . . . we're pushing ourselves beyond our limits at the moment, cannot do much more."

This probably was my lowest point on the trip. This is the letter Dad wrote to me:

Dear Paul,

This letter will hopefully find you on day 7 of your trip. It is so difficult for me to imagine the journey you have begun and what stretches out ahead of Tori and yourself. I hope when you are reading this that you are satisfied with the progress made so far. I have no idea how far that might be, but so long as you consider it reasonable progress that's good enough for me.

I have never written a letter to be put aside and taken out to read at an agreed timetable, but then you have never set out to row the Atlantic before! It's a bit like putting some words in a time capsule. I suppose in truth I have never had to write too many letters to you at any time, but despite that, I do think that our level of communication is special and I hope that will always be so.

You are both amazing people - quite rare in fact, and that makes me very proud and I'm sure that goes for Tori's folks. You must have enormous strength of character to get you even to this point. The amount of determination you have both displayed has been fantastic and in another context has been inspirational to others. That inspiration will undoubtedly continue and become even greater with each passing day, and the realisation of this dream for both of you will be something very, very special indeed. The inspiration which will follow the successful completion of this voyage will be enormous and I cannot begin to try and calculate what that will mean.

Youth (even at 29!) is such a strong driving force and you are both using your abilities to the limit. Nobody can deny you that. There may have been many light moments of banter, ball-hopping, etc, since you announced this incredible effort, but even though I am writing this several weeks ahead of your departure, I can already see reality dawn on quite a few. Their own (and my own!) lack of courage (and) mental and moral strength are severely tested in merely observing what you two are about.

As you know so well, Paul, this is not a project which your parents could muster enthusiasm for. What self-respecting parent would wish to see their children put so much challenge and danger into their lives by choice? It is an instinctive thing for parents to want to help their children throughout all their lives to achieve goals, but usually the issue of personal safety is not a factor. Consequently our overriding emotion has been focused on that issue, as I am sure you have easily understood.

The start line has now been passed, however, and although our instincts remain constant, we are, as we always have been, your most ardent supporters and always will be. I believe in your great determination, your courage as well as the strength you possess both mentally and physically. To have even contemplated doing what you are doing and to have followed through this project to this point took a single-minded (and somewhat selfish!) attitude to make it happen. Believe it or not, I am aware of that attitude. When the voyage is over, you will retain that determination and it will bring you both great success in life, and it is that above all that I look forward to see come to fruition.

I love you more than you can ever know and probably, if the truth be written, more than I would allow myself to demonstrate. Why that is, God only knows. It is surely a gender issue. If you have any doubts in your mind because of the vast horizon which opens out ahead of you, forget them! I have seen your determination at work in the past. I have no doubts because I have nothing but the highest opinion of your abilities. I know you will give this project your all, as will Tori, who showed such great fortitude and sheer guts whilst on your last mission together in Australia. Please do so safely and do not step outside of any limits that might jeopardise either of your safety. Please think of this at all times.

During the week before you read this, I will reach a milestone that I neither care to remember nor have any reason to speak about. However, it might be appropriate to share it with you since you will hardly meet anyone today who will be interested. On Wednesday, November 29th, I will have been working for 40 years with only the usual holiday breaks each year. So in the context of what you two young people are about, my life probably seems very dull. I don't think so myself! I have a collection of my own achievements, the most important of which is just being your Dad.

Both of you have so much to offer the world and so much you can achieve.

God speed you beautiful people and keep you safe.

Dad xox

(Remember where that came from! - she is also rooting for you!)

• Little Lady, One Man, Big Ocean: Rowing the Atlantic by Paul Gleeson & Tori Holmes with The Irish Times rowing correspondent Liam Gorman will be published next Wednesday (Oct 25th) by The Collins Press, priced €23.95.