From Medals to Masts: The Final Chapter | Military Life, Burns Night, and Sailing Into Retirement

After decades of service, medals, and mayhem, the time finally came to swap uniforms for lifejackets. In this episode of The Parallel Four, join Stephen, Johan, Vinka, and Marlin as they celebrate their final months in service with all the pomp, laughter, and camaraderie that defined their careers—from the Mess’s legendary Burns Night Supper to the grand farewell dinners that closed a remarkable chapter of military life.

Expect whisky, tartan, haggis, heartfelt toasts, and a few hangovers worthy of regimental legend. Then sail with them into the next adventure—retirement on the high seas aboard their brand-new Hallberg-Rassy 43 Salamanca.

This video blends humour, heart, and history—real stories of service, friendship, and transition from the battlefield to the ocean. Perfect for fans of true military tales, Cold War Germany, PsyOps operations, regimental traditions, rugby camaraderie, and the quiet pride of veterans who never really hang up the uniform.

Keywords: Military life stories, British Army veterans, Cold War Germany, Royal Anglian Regiment, SAS, Royal Marines, Army Sailing Association, Burns Night Mess Dinner, sailing retirement, Hallberg-Rassy 43, real military history, veterans’ adventures, regimental camaraderie, life after service, military storytelling, The Parallel Four.

Transcript

We came home with cheeks aching from so much laughing, a phone full of photos, and enough stories to dine out on for the next decade. Best week ever? Hard to rank—but it’s definitely in the top three. And that’s saying something, considering the lives we’ve led.

With just over a year to go before retirement, we knew it was time to start handing over the reins with a bit of grace. Fresh blood needed to take the lead on course delivery, while we quietly slid into the role of “wise old hands” who drift in with coffee, cake, and entirely unsolicited advice. It suited us fine—it freed up time for resettlement planning, that mysterious transition where soldiers try to become civilians without accidentally saluting the postman.

And with a brand-new Hallberg-Rassy on order, we thought it might be sensible to learn how to actually keep the thing running. We’d done every sailing course known to man, could tie a bowline blindfolded, and knew our port from our starboard—but when it came to maintenance? Let’s just say our default reaction to an engine making a funny noise was, “Turn the radio up.”

So off we went, signing ourselves up for a three-week boat maintenance course at the Hamble School of Yachting and settling into the Riverside House Hotel in the village. It was charmingly nautical—cheerful staff, hearty food, and rooms that smelled of crisp clean sheets with just the faintest trace of outboard fuel in the air. We slipped quickly into a routine: lectures and workshops by day, wine and laughter by night, with the occasional heated debate over whether an anode was really that important. (Spoiler: it is.) It was the perfect bridge between soldiering and sailing—less shouting, fewer salutes, and far more spanners.

Three glorious weeks of what the instructors cheerfully called the “Fix-It-or-Float” course turned us from deck-apes into semi-competent, mildly hazardous boat mechanics. We patched glass-fibre like surgeons with sandpaper, chased gremlins through wiring looms with multimeters and muttered threats, stitched sails like haute-couture tailors—if tailors swore and bled on their work—and coaxed life from a diesel engine that coughed like a chain-smoker on its last legs. We learned to placate stubborn outboards, resuscitate inflatable dinghies, pamper teak until it gleamed like something out of a yacht brochure, and even service life jackets without inflating them in our own faces. By the end, we had enough know-how to open a floating A&E clinic. Johan, of course, still swore that WD-40 and duct tape counted as “advanced spares.”

The rest of 2009 seemed to blur into a whirl of Mess dinners. For once, we actually made every single one—an achievement that left us with astronomical mess bills and precisely zero regrets. Each evening was a cocktail of heroic portions of port, questionable toasts, and Johan’s inevitable attempt to waltz with the Regimental silver.

After the Christmas Draw we dashed up to Sweden, officially for the festive cheer but truthfully to sneak a look at our nearly finished Hallberg-Rassy 43 mark 3. Ronnie, beaming like a proud father, gave us the grand tour inside the shed, patting the bulkheads as if they were thoroughbreds. “She’ll be ready by March,” he promised, “yours to collect in April.” We left the yard grinning like kids on Christmas morning—fitting, really, given the season.

Meanwhile, life at the lodge had taken on a new rhythm. Sven and his wife Vera were firmly at the helm, while Stefan and Torva embraced what they called “retirement”—which mostly meant turning up whenever anything heavy needed shifting. Christmas there was as gloriously chaotic as ever: children charging about, adults pretending to be responsible, skis stacked and clattering in every corner, and sauna sessions followed by snow rolls that had us shrieking like startled seals.

Glasses were raised—several times over—to Greta and Olaf, while the grandkids busied themselves raiding every tin of biscuits in sight. And then, barely had we caught our breath before we were dashing back to the UK, just in time for the Mess New Year’s Eve bash. Another evening of dubious karaoke, champagne headaches, and one unnamed culprit attempting a conga in full mess kit. Some things never change.

January rolled in, crisp and sharp, and with it came the countdown: eight months to retirement. The resettlement officer, bless him, armed us with more spreadsheets than a NATO exercise, and after crunching the numbers we realised something delightful. By stacking terminal, annual, and resettlement leave, we’d actually down tools by mid-April.

That meant our official last day in uniform would be 30 August—but in reality, we’d have four glorious months of freedom beforehand. Time to polish medals until they gleamed, practise our “relaxed veterans” faces in the mirror, and hatch plans for an Atlantic adventure fit for four very well-decorated retirees.

The Mess’s annual Burns Night Supper was not something we were about to miss, especially with retirement looming on the horizon. This year we went all in—no half measures. Johan and Stephen hired full Highland regalia: kilts swaying, Argyll jackets sharp as bayonets, sporrans swinging like metronomes, and knee socks pulled so high they could double as compression stockings.

Not to be outdone, Vinka and Marlin swept in wearing beautifully tailored Scottish gowns, each draped with tartan sashes bold enough to make Braveheart himself blush. Together we looked like the cast of Outlander: The Retirement Years. The Mess sparkled—round tables dressed in white linen and tartan runners, candlelight glinting off polished silver, and the unmistakable scent of haggis hanging in the air like the promise of questionable decisions.

Dinner turned into a glorious ode to all things Burns—and, if we’re honest, to the art of being barely sober. The haggis was piped in with full ceremony, stabbed with gusto during the Address to the Haggis, and served alongside generous helpings of neeps, tatties, and lashings of whisky. Toasts to the laddies and lassies bounced around the room, punctuated by fierce debates over favourite Burns verses and enough poetry to make poor Shakespeare feel criminally underappreciated.

The girls, having studied Burns back in school, strode to the floor like seasoned performers—each delivering a poem that drew rapturous applause and a few wolf whistles from the back tables. By the end of the night the sporrans were hanging at angles never intended by Scottish tradition, the whisky had flowed like a Highland river, and the next morning’s hangovers felt as though we’d wrestled a haggis and come out second best.

By March, the handovers were complete, the new generation buzzing with energy, and the four of us drifting around camp like slightly confused furniture—decorative, but not terribly functional. It felt odd, after so many years of purpose, to suddenly be more ornamental than operational. We turned in our issued kit, keeping back only our beloved Best Blues and Mess Dress—for “sentimental reasons,” of course (and perhaps the occasional dinner party).

With the admin out of the way, attention shifted to the real prize: Operation Bring Home the Boat. We’d christened her Salamanca—a name that carried both regimental pride and personal history. First, after the Battle of Salamanca in 1812, where Wellington’s men captured the French Eagle from the 62nd Line Regiment—a trophy that still stands at the heart of our Battalion’s heritage. And second, because Salamanca had been the very first platoon Johan and I served with as section commanders at the Depot. Watching them march off the square on their Passing Out Parade had been one of our proudest moments. Naming the boat after both that victory and that platoon felt exactly right: a nod to history, and a tribute to where our own journeys began.

Turns out, we’d grossly underestimated how much counted as “essential.” After several spirited debates—chiefly whether the espresso machine was mission critical—we crammed our entire sailing lives into the van. By the end, space was so tight we just about had room for the four of us, one box of ginger biscuits, and Johan’s knee wedged permanently under the cooler.

We rolled into Ellös like a Royal Logistics convoy, unloading gear in a blur of boxes, bags, and boat bits. Then Johan and I drove the van back through Denmark, across ferry crossings, and via a suspiciously cheerful string of German service stations, while Vinka and Marlin stayed aboard to stow everything with military precision. Once the van was home and parked, we wasted no time—flights booked, bags packed, and straight back to Sweden for the real adventure.

And everything clicked together like a Swiss watch. Back in Ellös, we spent two glorious weeks aboard Salamanca on a final shakedown cruise. We tested every sail, every winch, every system—ironing out the teething issues, which were mercifully minor. Unless, of course, you count Johan accidentally triggering the deck wash and soaking Marlin mid-toast.

At last, with sails raised and spirits high, we crossed the North Sea, braved the English Channel, and eased into the Hamble like we owned the place. Salamanca tied up neatly alongside Transworld Yachts, who handled the import paperwork, tax duties, and registration while the four of us stood on the pontoon grinning like pirates who’d just discovered the rum cellar.

And Salamanca deserved nothing but the best. We kitted her out with every bell, whistle, and shiny gadget in the catalogue. A brand-new Highfield four-metre tender with a 10hp outboard was craned into the davits. A sleek solar arch bristling with two hefty 400Ah panels was bolted on—because running out of power mid–Gin & Tonic simply wasn’t an option. Gas? Forget it. We went full electric: microwave, hob, oven—the works. Sailors, maybe, but we intended to eat like officers.

The Hallberg-Rassy team treated us like royalty, rolling her out of the shed in flawless condition, copper coat anti foul gleaming beneath the waterline. Less barnacle-scrubbing for us, more time lounging with a glass of rosé.

All in, she cost £700,000—import tax included. A staggering sum, maybe, but worth every penny. After all, you can’t take it with you… though if we could’ve, we’d have sailed her straight through the pearly gates.

As long-standing members of the Army Sailing Association, we didn’t waste any time putting in for a berth. Admittedly, Salamanca was cheekily oversize for the usual spec, but years of running ASA courses had earned us some goodwill, and they found us a prime slot in Dolphin Pool at Fort Blockhouse. For most boats her size, it would’ve been like threading a camel through the eye of a needle—but with bow and stern thrusters, we parked her as smooth as a superyacht in Monaco.

And because we never do things by halves, we went the whole hog and applied for a defaced Blue Ensign—Army anchor, lion, and crossed swords proudly stitched in. A proper bit of pomp to fly with the same pride we wore our medals.

By the end of May, Salamanca was fully commissioned, registered, and purring in her berth—gleaming, polished, and ready to show the Solent who was boss.

The master plan was sketched out in true military style: Channel crossing in August, a gentle bimble down the coast of Spain with a bottle of rum and the wind in our hair, and then the big one—an Atlantic crossing by December. Just in time, of course, to crash Christmas dinners everywhere with tales of rogue waves and perfect landfalls.

But before we could vanish into the sunset like well-groomed pirates armed with medals and suntan lotion, our CO pulled a few strings and secured the Camp Commandant’s blessing to formally dine us out at The Priory, the Officers’ Mess—a rare and deeply appreciated honour. The place was dressed to impress: polished silver, regimental colours hung with pride, and enough candles to simulate a Victorian séance. Walking in felt like stepping into a grand chapter of regimental history—only this one had decent wine and slightly better heating.

The evening was nothing short of spectacular. Speeches were delivered—some moving, some suspiciously whisky-fuelled—and toasts raised with gusto. Even the mess silver seemed to sparkle brighter, as though it knew we were being sent off in style. Then came the moment none of us expected: Brigadier Bruce himself strolled in, grinning like a man who knew more secrets about us than we cared to admit. And he wasn’t alone. Alongside him were Colonel Harvey, our very first OC from Depot days—still calling us “the kids” with a wink—Major Jenny Tate, now running influence ops at PJHQ, and General John, who once said Marlin could stare down a tank and make it surrender. Their presence meant the world.

As if that wasn’t enough, the CO announced he had something else—messages from across other PsyOps units. One by one, they were read aloud: warm words from old comrades in Belgium, Norway, Germany, Italy and a dozen other countries. Jokes about our “creative use of loudspeakers,” thanks for campaigns run shoulder-to-shoulder, and a few cheeky digs about how many languages Marlin and I could correct in a single briefing. Each message landed like a toast from afar, a chorus of voices that reminded us just how wide our strange, shared family stretched.

The real moment of magic came when the Group unveiled their presentation. The print section had gone above and beyond, producing a bespoke, museum-quality montage with the four of us at its centre—standing proudly outside Buckingham Palace, MBE's gleaming like the polished treasures they were.

Around that centrepiece swirled the tapestry of our three-decade journey: operations in dust and snow, briefings in tents and trenches, ski slopes carved with laughter, motorbike track days blurred with speed, and, to everyone’s delight, a handful of incriminating photos from fancy-dress Mess nights. Johan’s infamous “Viking ballerina” costume got the loudest cheer of all—thunderous applause echoing off the Mess walls as he hid his face in his hands.

We were properly choked up. That montage wasn’t just a gift—it was our story, frozen in stills, inside jokes, and the kind of memories that never fade no matter how far you sail. It was destined for pride of place in our new home, right above the gin cabinet, keeping watch over every future toast, tale, and tipple.

And then came the moment of truth. One by one, each of us was called to our feet to make a speech—some steady, some shaky, all heartfelt—and every word was met with cheers, laughter, and the odd discreet dab at the eye. It drove home the simple truth: you can hang up the uniform, hand back the kit, and even stop marching—but the camaraderie never leaves. It stays stitched into your soul, like a regimental flash you can’t peel off, reminding you every day that once upon a time, you belonged to something bigger than yourself.

Two days later, it was the Sergeant’s Mess’s turn to see us off—and they did it in proper style, though not without a touch of mischief. It was the sort of night that promised sore heads and warm hearts in equal measure. The dining hall had been transformed into a scene worthy of royalty: crisp white tablecloths, silver polished to a mirror shine, regimental trophies laid out like crown jewels, and just enough candlelight to make even the gruffest Warrant Officer look positively poetic.

The turnout was staggering—close to 250 Mess members, past and present, crammed into the hall to give us the kind of send-off you only get once in a career. The air was thick with laughter, whisky fumes, and the quiet squeak of boots polished within an inch of their lives. Even the RSM cracked a smile. Once. Briefly.

Between courses and the ritual calls of “Mr Vice!” each of us had to stand and give a speech. You’d think after decades on the briefing circuit we’d be steady as rocks—but facing that sea of familiar faces, comrades who’d shared our best and worst days, hit harder than any op. Cool as cucumbers? Not a chance. Emotional doesn’t even begin to cover it. There were tears, plenty of laughter, and—because some traditions never die—a few cheeky heckles from the back row that only made the moment more perfect.

Then came the presentations, and this was where the Mess truly outdid themselves. For Marlin, they unveiled a beautifully crafted bronze of a British Army female soldier on combat patrol in Afghanistan—crouched low, rifle raised, eyes sharp. It captured her strength, her courage, her sheer determination in a way words never could. For me, an equally striking bronze of a female soldier on foot patrol in Northern Ireland—quiet vigilance and steely grace, as if she could spot a hidden weapon or a cheeky schoolboy with a stone from fifty yards.

Johan’s statue was an absolute belter: an Arctic Warfare specialist, SLR slung over his shoulder, skis strapped to his pack, and his green beret tilted just so. He laughed and said it looked exactly like him after a long night ski—minus the frostbite. And mine? A timeless, commanding bronze of the Commando Memorial at Spean Bridge. The moment I saw it, I was choked up. “It’s not just a statue,” I said quietly to the table, “it’s a reminder of all we stand for.”

We were told each piece had been custom-commissioned, chosen and cast in bronze because, as the RSM put it, “plastic just wouldn’t cut it for the likes of you lot.” They weren’t farewell gifts so much as tributes—tokens of admiration, tangible reminders that what we did mattered.

Now they stand in pride of place in our hallway, the four bronzes side by side, silently watching over us like old comrades standing guard. Every time we pass them—on the way out for a ride, or back in from a sail—we remember the faces, the laughter, the sweat, the madness. And we smile. And on special occasions, those bronzes will take pride of place as table pieces for dinner nights in the new home—reminders of where we’ve been, and of the family we’ll always belong to.