From Combat Boots to Deck Shoes | The Atlantic Adventure Begins | Sailing, Military Life & New Horizons

What happens when four battle-tested veterans trade barracks life for blue horizons? Join Stephen, Vinka, Johan, and Marlin as they swap camouflage for canvas aboard their Hallberg-Rassy 43, Salamanca. This episode of The Parallel Four charts the start of their greatest adventure yet — a full Atlantic Circuit captured in cinematic detail.

From demolishing the old house in Hitchin and building their dream home to slipping lines from Gosport and setting sail for Madeira, Tenerife, Cape Verde, and beyond, this is real life after service — told with humour, heart, and hard-won wisdom. Expect laughter, mishaps, deep-blue swims, and the kind of camaraderie that only decades in uniform can forge.

Filmed by ex-Royal Marines Tom and Jimmy, this isn’t just a sailing vlog — it’s a journey of transition, resilience, and rediscovery. Perfect for fans of military life stories, Cold War postings, 70s-90s Germany nostalgia, rugby camaraderie, classic motorbikes, and the pursuit of freedom under sail.

Subscribe for new chapters every week — military history meets adventure travel with real people, real stories, and the open ocean calling.

Transcript

Work finally began on the demolition of the old house in early July, and it was a sight worth raising a glass to—like stripping away the last stubborn layer of bad 1980s wallpaper. Bulldozers rolled in with all the delicacy of a pub brawl, and within days the weary old structure was reduced to rubble and memories.

Then the diggers turned their attention to the lawn, gouging out a cavernous hole for the new cellar—so vast the neighbours began to speculate whether we were installing a nuclear bunker, an Olympic pool, or perhaps launching our own Tube station. Dozens of lorries ferried away the muck, creating traffic chaos but making one café owner very rich indeed thanks to forty hungry builders queueing daily for bacon butties.

Just before we slipped lines and set sail, the first sections of foundation were being lowered in. Charlie the Calm, ever unflappable, promised he’d project-manage every inch of the chaos. “Go explore the world,” he said with a smile. “I’ll deal with the mud and mayhem.”

Charlie had assembled what he proudly called his “elite team” of local master builders—think The A-Team, only with more cement mixers and fewer saxophone solos. Each was an expert in their craft: bricklayers whose trowels moved like sculptor’s chisels, electricians who looked capable of wiring a battleship blindfolded, and plumbers who made pipework resemble origami. We had every confidence they’d build something spectacular—and more importantly, that it would all end up gloriously level.

Meanwhile, back in Hitchin, Harry and Ingrid had nobly agreed to keep an eye on our old houses. How they’d ended up as caretakers of two biker bunkers, none of us quite knew—but they accepted it with a smile and a shrug. For the time being, the houses stood idle, doubling as glorified garages for our borderline obscene collection of motorbikes. It was less “suburban respectability” and more “Top Gear’s secret storage unit.”

Over the years, we’d grown surprisingly handy behind the lens—between operations, ski trips, and motorbike escapades, we’d filmed enough to give David Attenborough pause. Editing and production courses? We’d ticked off plenty, even taught a few ourselves. So when the sailing adventure loomed, it was obvious: we’d document the whole thing and share it with the world on YouTube.

Of course, that meant one thing—buying more tech than your average BBC news van. We kitted ourselves out with twin MacBook Pros, each with enough RAM to launch a satellite, and a small fleet of external hard drives to hold the inevitable mountain of footage. Six GoPros joined the arsenal, along with two Sony E10 camera kits, lenses for every mood, tripods, mounts, ND filters, and not one but two Rode Wireless GO II mic sets—because if we were going to yell at dolphins, we wanted crystal-clear audio.

By the time we’d finished, we weren’t just sailors anymore—we were floating, wind-powered cinematographers with a mission.

We knew there was no way we could manage the editing ourselves while juggling storms, harbour entries, and the distractions of a Mediterranean wine list. That’s where Tom and Jimmy came in—two recently demobbed Royal Marines with combat tours behind them and camera gear slung over their shoulders. After their general duties, they’d specialised as combat photographers, and now they were at college studying film and TV production. In short—they were perfect.

We handed them the reins to our YouTube channel, along with a brand-new MacBook Pro, a stack of hard drives, and all the kit they needed to turn our salty escapades into binge-worthy content. They were a rare find—half editors, half action heroes, and always ready for whatever challenge cropped up. Between us, we had the perfect team. Salamanca wasn’t just a yacht anymore—she was about to become the star of her own Atlantic show.

June and July became Salamanca’s big audition. We took her out on a series of shakedown sails—part sea trials, part floating dress rehearsal. It was like nautical speed dating: learning her quirks, testing her moods, and, most importantly, figuring out how not to spill tea mid-tack. Of course, it doubled as a fine excuse to lounge on deck with the sun on our faces, claiming we were “testing wind angle.”

Between reefing sails and checking bilge alarms, we honed our filming techniques—shifting GoPro angles, practising our “camera presence,” and discovering just how brutally unflattering direct sunlight could be in a close-up. We also stumbled across an important production lesson: Vinka’s mic always needed turning down (her voice carried like a foghorn), while Johan’s needed cranking just to get him above the hum of the autopilot. By the end, we had Salamanca trimmed beautifully—and our film crew almost competent.

All the while, we were buried in the bowels of passage planning. The chart table sagged under the weight of pilot books, tidal atlases, weather routing charts, and enough Post-it notes to redecorate a yacht club. Every possible Atlantic route was debated—prevailing winds, current systems, seasonal storms, and yes, even the odd pirate hotspot marked just in case. Our Iridium sat phone was tested within an inch of its life, mostly to prove it could download weather forecasts without bankrupting us in the process.

Provisions were a campaign of their own. We loaded Salamanca with dried pasta, tins, snacks, and military-strength coffee—enough to keep a small flotilla running for weeks. And then, the pièce de résistance: a last-minute haul-out. Her bottom was scrubbed, polished, and coated until she gleamed like a racehorse in a ball gown. No weed, no drag, no excuses. She looked sharp, sleek, and ready to fly.

The mission brief was clear: complete the Atlantic Circuit swiftly, efficiently, and with the absolute minimum of faffing about. No meandering through quaint island harbours for the perfect Instagram snap, no three-week detours to track down “the best rum cake in the Caribbean.” This wasn’t a holiday—it was a challenge.

The plan was bold: Gos port to New York and back, two full crossings before August—or September at the latest. Sure, if a pod of dolphins decided to escort us or if we ended up sipping a rum punch in Antigua, we weren’t going to object. But the eyes stayed fixed on the horizon, and the finish line. After all, we wanted to be back in time to see the new house finished—before Charlie the Calm decided to add a turret for his own amusement.

And so, with one last meeting on site—hard hats perched, builders buzzing like caffeinated bees—we shook Charlie’s hand, admired the freshly dug foundations, and promised to bring back sunshine and sea tales.

At dawn on a crisp August morning, we slipped Salamanca’s lines in Gosport and let a fresh northerly breeze fill her sails. She surged southwards, running free as though she’d been waiting her whole life for this. Brest was meant to be the first stop, but at the pace we were flying, we joked about just giving it a wave as we went by.

Five glorious days later, with no engine used and spirits riding high, we were still moving too well to stop at La Coruña. The weather was so perfect it felt like we’d stumbled onto some divine warranty plan, and with the forecast looking as rosy as a sailor’s nose after a tot of rum, we made the bold call: bypass the pitstops and head straight for Madeira.

Boom. Another five days of perfect sailing, and there we were—sun-kissed, slightly smug, and 1,300 nautical miles covered in just ten days. Not bad for a bunch of middle-aged mariners with a fondness for tea and pastries. Madeira welcomed us like long-lost cousins, and we happily lingered for a week. Officially for admin and editing… but mostly for the cake.

To spice things up, we turned our Madeira stop into a kind of creative boot camp—Top Gear meets Blue Planet, only with less budget and far more sunscreen. We split into pairs and roamed the island with cameras, swapping roles between on-screen presenter and behind-the-lens genius. Some of us were natural showmen. Others… definitely had faces better suited for radio.

But the footage—oh, the footage! Towering mountains, bustling markets, banana plantations, and even a few questionable dance routines that should probably stay locked on the hard drives. Each evening we gathered back aboard Salamanca, snacks at the ready, squinting at the day’s rushes like Spielberg at sea. The editing process was hardly Hollywood magic—it was more “whose elbow is that, and why is it in every shot?” Still, bit by bit, and with a generous supply of wine, we were getting there.

Once Salamanca was restocked with fresh fruit, vegetables, and an indecent number of pastel de nata, we slipped lines and pointed the bow south for the Canary Islands. With a soft breeze nudging us from astern and the autopilot humming contentedly, we covered the 260 miles to Tenerife in just forty hours. It was so smooth we barely spilt a drop of coffee—on a boat, that’s nothing short of miraculous.

For the next two weeks, we played at being landlubbers. We explored the island, filmed more content—including one memorable scene involving a goat and a very confused tourist—and mingled with fellow sailors all prepping for the big jump across the Atlantic. Everyone had their own theory, their own favourite route, or a terrifyingly complicated weather app. We nodded sagely and smiled, secretly hoping our carefully sketched napkin-plan was at least half as clever as theirs.

With our confidence high and the forecast still smiling kindly, we aimed Salamanca’s bow towards Cape Verde—800 miles to the south and the perfect launchpad for the promised land: the Caribbean. We timed our departure like seasoned pros, slipping out of Tenerife just as the trade winds stretched open their arms to welcome us.

Six days later, sun-bronzed and salty, we glided into Mindelo—the bustling hub of the Cape Verde islands. Colourful buildings spilled down the hillsides, the marina buzzed with life, and the airport sat conveniently close for any last-minute flights home (always reassuring, though never needed). It was the perfect staging post for the Big Blue. We were camera-ready, buzzing with anticipation, and convinced nothing could stop us now. The Atlantic stretched ahead, daring us. What could possibly go wrong?

We spent a full week in Mindelo soaking up Cape Verdean charm while watching the marina transform into something resembling nautical rush hour. By midweek, it seemed like every sailor with a bucket list and a boat had squeezed in. The pontoons buzzed with conversations that swung wildly between serious weather analysis, anchor gossip, and provisioning one-upmanship.

“What’s your downwind setup?” “How many tins of baked beans did you stash?” “Did you hear about the German crew on a pasta-only diet?” Dockside banter became equal parts planning and comedy show. After huddling over forecasts (and a few too many rum cocktails), the consensus emerged: a golden weather window was about to open. Cue frantic provisioning runs, last-minute hull scrubs, and panicked double-checks to make sure no one had forgotten the chocolate biscuits.

Luckily, Salamanca was as ready as she’d ever be. Our watermaker purred happily, giving us the unheard-of luxury of daily showers—though after one unfortunate, soapy incident we were forced to issue a firm “no shampoo in the cockpit” rule.

Then came the big morning. Mindelo stirred awake to the sight of some thirty yachts slipping lines in unison, setting off westward like a parade of floating dreams. We hoisted sails, divvied up the watch rota, handed out seasickness tablets—cue the predictable protests of “I never get seasick”—and pointed Salamanca’s bow toward Barbados. Just a cheeky 2,100 miles away.

And the conditions? Nothing short of textbook: steady trades, a kindly swell, and skies so perfectly blue they looked painted on. It felt like the Atlantic itself had rolled out a red carpet just for us.

About halfway across, we did something gloriously reckless—we stopped. Sails furled, swim ladder down, and suddenly we were diving headfirst into the bluest, most bottomless patch of ocean any of us had ever seen. There’s something both magical and unnerving about swimming in water five miles deep—like floating over the open mouth of a dragon. But oh, it was worth it. We bobbed, laughed, splashed, and nervously joked about who’d drawn shark-watch duty.

Then it was back aboard, sails hoisted, and straight into the rhythm of the Atlantic. Our watch system ticked over like clockwork—two hours on, two hours off—just enough sleep to stave off mutiny, and just enough coffee consumption to qualify as a minor war crime. By day sixteen, with Barbados finally creeping into reach, the novelty of pre-dawn shifts had worn decidedly thin, and even the kettle seemed to be groaning in protest.

Land ho! Barbados shimmered on the horizon like a green mirage rising out of the blue. As Salamanca nudged alongside the dock, the four of us erupted—cheering, clapping, and breaking into a victory dance that ranged from respectable to rhythmically questionable. The reward was five glorious days ashore, reacquainting ourselves with showers that didn’t sway, drinks that came ice-cold, and rum punch strong enough to knock out a donkey.

But itchy feet are a sailor’s curse. By the fifth day, the charts were back on the table and the lure of the horizon was impossible to resist. With a wink and a wave to Barbados, we slipped away under the stars and made the overnight run to Martinique. At dawn, we dropped anchor in the beautiful Sainte-Anne bay and piled ashore like conquering heroes—albeit in flip-flops. Beachside cocktails followed, sand between our toes, with solemn vows not to check the weather forecast… at least for an hour.

After a full night’s sleep beneath a sky glittering with stars, we woke to a lazy breakfast of fresh fruit and smug grins. Then it was anchors up and bows north, setting course for Guadeloupe—three days and about 300 miles of gentle, forgiving sailing.

With the trades behind us and the horizon empty save for the odd seabird and a playful dolphin escort, Salamanca loped along like she’d done it a thousand times before. Landfall came at Deshaies, a postcard-perfect bay on the island’s northwest tip. Anchoring was easy, the water invitingly warm, and within minutes we were united in declaring it our new favourite spot… at least until the next one.

Our grand Christmas plan was simple: bob around the British Virgin Islands like festive pirates with a taste for rum and Technicolor sunsets. It took just two days under sail to cover the 200 miles to Tortola, where we eased into Wickham’s Cay Inner Harbour Marina—a proper sailor’s haven, complete with palm trees, laundry facilities, and a bar that mixed cocktails strong enough to strip varnish. Salamanca’s own washing machine finally got a well-earned rest as we surrendered our laundry to civilisation for once.

We docked the day before our birthday, which seemed like fate handing us an excuse to celebrate in style. The girls went full Nigella in the galley, conjuring up a feast fit for royalty, while the saloon table was set as if the Queen herself might wander in. Thanks to a miracle of modern tech (and the rare blessing of decent marina Wi-Fi), we even pulled off a full Zoom call with all the kids. There were tears, laughter, and the inevitable “Can you hear me now?” chaos—but for a moment, it felt like the whole family was right there with us.

We spent a sun-soaked, laughter-filled week in Tortola, mingling with the international cruising crowd—most of whom seemed to be professional rum tasters with enviable tans. New Year’s Eve landed us in a ramshackle beach bar that looked suspiciously like someone’s garden shed with fairy lights. By midnight, the place was heaving—people dancing barefoot in the sand, belting out a very questionable version of Sweet Caroline, and one unfortunate flare fired off by someone (names withheld to protect the guilty) who mistook it for a novelty sparkler.

January 1st dawned what we politely called a “low-energy day.” Sunglasses were mandatory indoors, coffee was consumed intravenously, and any noise louder than a whisper was considered an act of violence. Still, by the morning of the 2nd, Salamanca was ready to go. We slipped lines with as much dignity as four slightly hungover veterans could muster and set course for Puerto Rico, sails catching the first fresh breeze of the year.

By late evening, we were snug at anchor in Bahía Las Cabezas on Puerto Rico’s eastern edge. It was the picture of peace—turquoise waters, sandy coves, and the occasional pelican swooping in for a nosy look. We stayed put for a few days, waiting for the right weather window to head north, which gave us time to stretch our legs ashore and really drink in the scenery.

It also gave us a chance to up our filming game. By now, we’d come a long way from wobbly GoPro shots and foghorn mics—we actually used tripods, framed the shots properly, and even remembered to switch the microphones on before talking. We managed to upload a good batch of footage too, keeping Tom and Jimmy back home happily swamped in edits. Thanks to solid marina Wi-Fi, we even pulled off a couple of live streams straight from Salamanca—our slowly growing band of YouTube followers lapped it up like cats with cream.

Once the weather gods finally gave us the nod, we weighed anchor and turned Salamanca’s bow toward Luperón in the Dominican Republic—just over 300 nautical miles away. What followed was three-and-a-half days of pure champagne sailing: blue skies, following seas, and that perfect breeze that makes you feel smug just for hoisting the sails.

We dropped anchor in Luperón, Salamanca sitting safe and snug, and hopped into a water taxi looking every bit the salt-crusted adventurers. From there, it was a merry muddle of buses, rickety taxis, and one slightly questionable train connection to reach Santiago—a vibrant, fascinating city bursting with colour, culture, and dangerously good coffee. Naturally, we filmed everything: bustling markets, ancient cathedrals, and even the girls hopping in with a street musician to bash out a rhythm on a tambourine. That footage? Pure YouTube gold.

We were having such a blast in the Dominican Republic that one balmy evening, cocktails in hand, we decided to nudge the adventure dial up a notch and apply for a Cuban sailing permit. Bureaucracy being what it is, we’d already done our homework: two weeks max in Cuban waters and under no circumstances could we sail directly to the US afterwards. Fine by us—we’d just hop over to the Bahamas first.So, with a bottle of rum for inspiration and a packet of peanuts for sustenance, we sketched out the plan on the nav table. Cuba first, then a stop at Rum Cay (purely for academic research, naturally), onwards to Nassau, and finally Florida. Seamanship with a splash of Caribbean flair—it looked like a cracking route on paper.

Cuba was everything we’d hoped for and absolutely nothing we expected. As we sailed into Cienfuegos Harbour—past rust-streaked fishing boats and a port authority office that looked suspiciously like a Bond villain’s seaside retreat—we knew right away this wasn’t going to be the usual Caribbean stop.

The entry formalities were pure theatre, like stepping back into the Cold War. A small flotilla of officials boarded us: customs, immigration, a doctor, and—most puzzling of all—a man with a clipboard who never spoke, merely nodded gravely at everything as though he were judging our souls. They were polite, curious, and just a touch dramatic. One even asked if our watermaker was “for espionage purposes.” We assured him it was far more likely to be used for rinsing salty underpants.

Once the formalities were out of the way, we set off to explore this extraordinary time capsule of a nation. Havana was nothing short of a feast for the senses—and for the camera lens. Every street corner begged to be filmed: colonial mansions crumbling but proud, laundry strung like bunting across wrought-iron balconies, and children playing stickball with the kind of carefree joy you can’t choreograph.

And then there were the cars. Endless convoys of 1950s Chevrolets, Buicks, and Fords, painted in every jellybean colour under the sun—some gleaming, others held together by sheer willpower and a few creative welds. More than once, we spotted a bonnet propped open with a mechanic’s arm waving out like a semaphore signal, somehow keeping the whole contraption alive. It was chaotic, colourful, and utterly captivating.

We filmed everything. Locals dancing on street corners, a cigar-rolling demo that came perilously close to setting Marlin’s hair ablaze, and Johan and me attempting salsa in a back-alley bar—two left feet apiece and three mojitos in. Meanwhile, Stephen ended up deep in conversation with a bloke who swore his ’57 Plymouth was powered by a Soviet tank engine. At one point, we even interviewed an old revolutionary who claimed he’d once danced with Che Guevara. Possibly true, possibly rum-fuelled fantasy—but either way, it was gold for the cameras.

And the hospitality—second to none. Every meal felt like a celebration: rice and black beans, fresh lobster, grilled plantain, and rum. Always rum. One night we stumbled into a backyard jam session where a man played an oil can like a bass guitar, and a recycled Coke bottle of home-brewed “rum” was passed around. It had a kick like a mule—and judging by the way our dinghy oars lost their varnish afterwards, it may have doubled as paint stripper.

The internet was virtually non-existent, which was equal parts maddening and liberating. We were off-grid, off-script, and loving it. Journals were filled, cameras rolled daily, and the laughter came thick and fast—especially the day Johan tried out his Spanish and accidentally insulted someone’s grandmother. (Lesson learned: abuela means grandmother, not abuelo. And in Johan’s mangled version, it came out as something like “old goat with bad teeth.” Cue frantic apologies and hasty diplomatic back pedalling.)

By day ten, our hard drives were groaning with footage, our heads buzzing with stories, and our livers quietly begging for a detox. With the two-week clock ticking down, we reluctantly headed back to Salamanca to prep for departure. On our last evening, we raised glasses and cigars on deck, watching the Havana sunset with jazz drifting from the shore, diesel and roasted pork hanging in the air. It was messy, magical, unforgettable Cuba—and it was time to sail on.

And with that, Salamanca’s anchor came up and her bow swung north toward the Bahamas. Time to offload, upload, and keep our stories suitably vague before the US border patrol started asking awkward questions like, “So… been anywhere interesting lately?”