One man's journey across the Atlantic
I remember very clearly the day the war started. There had been warning signs – Russian troops along the Ukrainian border, helicopters, rocket explosions, tanks on the outskirts of the city – but none of that prepares you for the shock and disbelief you feel when it actually happens.
The whole situation felt personal to me from the beginning. I was born in Moscow, the then capital of the USSR; I trained and worked there in the 90s as an anaesthetist. My mother is Ukrainian, however, and my wife was born in Kyiv. Although I later left Russia and made a life for my family in the UK, we visited Ukraine often. When Russia annexed Crimea and invaded eastern Ukraine in 2014, there was no question which side I was on.
Even then, ten years ago now, I felt a deep desire to help my Ukrainian hospital colleagues, who were overwhelmed with patients without any real experience of trauma medicine. I helped with training, I organised seminars and workshops, and went to Ukraine on a regular basis.
When I learned about the war unfolding, my immediate reaction was to go all-in. I knew from colleagues volunteering in the Ukrainian Territorial Army that the most acute need was felt at the frontline – tourniquets, gauze and bandages were all in high demand. I opened a Just Giving page and within a few days I had raised £30,000. The response was overwhelming – it inspired and motivated me to do everything I could to help. Within four weeks of the war starting I was off to Ukraine in a van given to me by a friend. Arriving in Lviv without any major problems, I realised it had only taken me two days to get there. I had to stop and really let that thought sink in – that Europe is smaller than we think.
Three and a half years ago, I participated in a rowing race across the Mediterranean – a 50th birthday challenge I had set myself. Our team comprised four strangers who had only met for a couple of practice rows out in the Solent. Together, we experienced all the physical and mental challenges that come with spending days at a time on a small boat in the middle of the ocean. But we also faced a brutal storm, which brought with it twenty-foot waves, blowing us a few dozen miles off course. We eventually had to be rescued by a support boat.
Initially, the experience made me want to have nothing more to do with ocean rowing. But there was something unforgettable about it too – the sunrises and sunsets, the wildlife, team spirit – all mixed in with extreme discomfort and the sheer brutality of Mother Nature. I was fascinated by how such an uncontrollable environment forced us to make choices. Could the worst possible external circumstances still bring out the best in us? The seed was sown, and the ocean rowing bug infected my mind.
Alongside this crazy dream of mine, the Ukraine war raged on, so I decided to use my challenge to fundraise. On 22 December 2024, I will set off from Gran Canaria to Barbados, rowing some 3,300 miles, solo and unsupported. I am doing this independently too – not as part of a race – so I can be sure that every penny I raise will go straight to charity.
The human aspect is at the very centre of my mission. I want to show my Ukrainian medical colleagues that they are remembered and cared for, and to tell their stories. I am also doing this to test myself, to see if this experience will break me or make me a better man. And I am doing it to raise money for my charity, UKROPS, so that I may invest in bigger projects which will change lives for the better.
A Ukrainian friend of mine, a military anaesthetist working in a frontline hospital, summarised it perfectly: “as an idle observer, it is like maintaining a sacred fire at the edge of the World in an abandoned church after the crowds have left.” This is what will be in the back of my mind while I am out in the middle of the Atlantic, being battered by big waves with no land in sight.
My work in Ukraine has so far been a success on many levels – medical kit has been delivered directly to medics on the southern and eastern frontlines, and badly needed body armour has supported the troops pushing Russians out of Kyiv. Anaesthetists in Vinnitsa are now able to run four theatres. This success comes out of our ability to work directly and collaboratively with the people on the ground. I’m coming to understand that large humanitarian organisations regularly donate equipment which is either incompatible or redundant, and it’s such a waste. I have watched this small-scale, targeted approach save lives.
I hope my row will allow me to expand the help that I can offer. I have established a charitable organisation, UKROPS, with three Eastern European Consultant Anaesthetists, who have a profound understanding of the situation in Ukraine. In addition to sending medical supplies and tactical kits to hospitals and front-line facilities across Ukraine, we’ve set up WhatsApp groups for real-time clinical advice – collaboration between surgeons in Southampton and medical teams in Ukraine. We're now bringing Ukrainian doctors to the UK for short clinical attachments, but it is costly, and my hope is that this could be part-funded by the money I raise while rowing the Atlantic.
Leo Krivskiy is a Consultant Anaesthetist at Southampton Hospital. On the 22nd December 2024, he will begin an unsupported solo ocean crossing from the Canary Islands to the Caribbean. This could take anywhere between 60-100 days. His nutrition has been focused on high quality calories, protein, healthy fats and dried fruit. His hatches are packed full of extra-large Firepot meals – a mix of breakfasts, mains, Chocolate Pudding, and Christmas Dinner.
You can follow his journey here: www.leosrow.com