Pierre Toussaint

The first time I saw the Atlantic stretch endlessly before me, I knew I had to cross it. Not for fame, not to prove anything—just to know what I was capable of. I grew up in Biarritz, France, always overshadowed by my siblings' academic success. School felt like a prison. Words blurred, numbers mocked me. But in sports, I found my place.

At sixteen, I cycled to Germany and back, 2,000 kilometers of solitude and sweat. It wasn’t enough. At eighteen, I decided: I would row across the Atlantic. No crew, no support—just me, a seven-meter boat, and 4,900 kilometers of open water. My family called me reckless, but I had never felt so sure about anything.

With only five months of preparation, I set off. The first days were almost peaceful, but soon, the ocean tested me. Waves towered over me, storms raged, my hands bled. The salt cracked my skin. Sleep came in short, restless bursts. My food—astronaut rations—became tasteless. By the second month, my Spotify signal was gone. The silence was deafening. I spoke to myself, to the waves, to ghosts in my mind.

On Christmas Eve, dolphins surrounded my boat. I slid into the water, feeling their sleek bodies cut through the sea. For the first time in weeks, I wasn’t alone. But the ocean wasn’t finished with me yet. A few days later, a storm nearly capsized my boat, and I spent hours bailing out water, fighting exhaustion with every stroke.

By the time I reached land, I was unrecognizable. My body was hollowed by exhaustion, my mind sharpened by solitude. Fifty-nine days alone on the ocean had changed me. When I finally stepped ashore, there was no overwhelming joy—just quiet realization. I had faced the vastness of the world and survived.

At twenty, I now tell people: do more than just exist. Step into the unknown. You’ll never know your limits until you push past them. The greatest journey isn’t across an ocean—it’s discovering who you are when there’s no one left to define you.