Military Life & Adventure: Veteran Sailors, Two Wheels, War Zones & Rugby Tales

Veteran service, extreme sport, epic travel and the ride of a lifetime — this video hands you the full story. I’m Tim Heale, ex-British Army infantry soldier turned PSYOPS operator, and in this episode I take you behind the uniform, onto a motorbike across historic battlefields, into offshore sailing missions and on to the rugby pitch. Dive into military life from the 1970s to the 2010s: deployments in Germany, action in war zones, training in public order, and the camaraderie of the barracks. I’ve raced telemark skis, led hang-gliding excursions, and now I travel the world telling real stories of service, sport and survival. Expect raw honesty, dark humour, mental health reflections and plenty of war-zone insight. This is for anyone who loves military history, life in uniform, adventurers on two wheels or offshore with the wind, and sports lovers who appreciate the grit and glory of the game. If you’re curious about how service shapes character, how deployments leave their mark and how life beyond the uniform evolves, press play. Don’t forget to like, comment and share with your mates who appreciate authentic veterans’ stories.

Transcript

Sliding into Nassau’s snug marina, it wasn’t the turquoise water or palm-fringed shoreline that thrilled us most—it was the prospect of decent WiFi. After weeks of digital drought and Cuban dial-up that barely qualified as electricity, this was the promised land of broadband. We went alongside like a commando team on a black-op: Operation Upload.

Back in Blighty, Jimmy confirmed the goldmine—he could see the Cuba footage, it was sensational, and he’d already started layering in background music. With his green light, we ceremoniously wiped Salamanca’s hard drives, just in case a curious US official wondered why our route log looked suspiciously tropical.

Clean slates, clear consciences, and full bars of signal. Hallelujah indeed.

From Nassau, we set sail for the St. Lucie Inlet, two days of sapphire seas and skies so perfect they belonged on a postcard. Salamanca practically purred her way across, and by the time we slipped into the Indian River, the world had gone glassy calm.

We motored north at a lazy pace, passing manatees curious as labradors and fishermen who waved as though we were either royalty or pirates with an eye for luxury yachts. Pulling into Titusville Marina, we tied Salamanca up with fenders and knots so neat they could’ve been used in a training manual.

And then we did the most outrageous thing four salt-encrusted sailors could think of—we rented a car and headed straight for Orlando.

You might imagine that four seasoned military veterans wouldn’t get misty-eyed over Harry Potter World. You’d be wrong. Marlin and I had not only devoured the books, we’d translated them into Swedish back when the kids were small, so we walked through those gates with stars in our eyes. The lads, of course, pretended they were “just along for the ride,” but within ten minutes both of them were arguing about which house they belonged to. Stephen claimed Gryffindor, naturally, while Johan oozed Slytherin energy so strongly that even the sorting hat on the souvenir stand seemed to glare at him.

We didn’t just stroll through—we went full Hogwarts. Wands purchased, robes donned, and not a shred of dignity left. The interactive spells were our downfall. One flick of the wrist and a fountain erupted, another twist and a door creaked open. We were like children on a sugar rush, casting so many spells that one poor Hufflepuff kid stood watching us, clutching his butterbeer, giving us the sort of look that said, “You’re embarrassing the entire franchise.”

The rides were equally ridiculous. We soared on broomsticks in the simulator—Stephen yelling “Contact left!” every time a dragon appeared—and dined in the Great Hall, where Johan nearly dropped his shepherd’s pie trying to levitate his fork. Marlin, meanwhile, discovered the gift shops were basically Gringotts with credit card terminals. We spent a small fortune on Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, Chocolate Frogs, and enough wizard tat to start our own Diagon Alley franchise.

By the end of the day, we were carrying more shopping bags than a first-year with a trust fund, our robes were crooked, and our wands were flashing like cheap lightsabers. Mischief? Most definitely managed. And that was before we staggered over to Disney and Universal for the full theme park gauntlet.

We limped back to Salamanca like the weary survivors of some enchanted battle, robes askew and wands drooping, and agreed—unanimously—that the next week would be taken at a far more sedate pace. So we pottered gently up the Inter coastal Waterway, easing into sleepy marinas, sipping our morning coffee while egrets strutted on the dock as if they owned the place.

Eventually, we fetched up in Jacksonville, where we dropped anchor for a couple of weeks to catch up with old American military friends. That, predictably, meant beer, barbecue, and tall tales that stretched taller with every round—by the third evening someone’s fishing story had evolved into a full-scale naval engagement.

Once our livers had staged a partial recovery, Salamanca’s bow swung north again. The leg to Wilmington, North Carolina was our longest yet—nearly four hundred miles and five solid days of sailing. Dolphins danced at our bow, squalls tried (and failed) to dampen our spirits, and we passed the hours with an onboard trivia tournament so fierce it made the Olympics look casual. Marlin clinched victory at the last moment by rattling off every Bond film in the correct order, to much groaning from the rest of us.

In Wilmington, we found a charming little tucked-away marina where Salamanca could rest her sleek hull for a few days. We, meanwhile, did the unthinkable for sailors on an Atlantic adventure—we abandoned the sea, hired a car, and set off inland for our next adventure.

We took a road trip out to Fort Bragg—well, Fort Liberty these days, though everyone still calls it Bragg out of habit—and stayed with some of our old mates from back in the days we worked alongside the 4th Psychological Operations Group (Airborne), or 4 Pog for short. These were the U.S. Army’s own mind-bending maestros. If you’ve ever questioned a decision you made after watching an American recruitment video, chances are these lads were behind it.

A couple of them were still in uniform and insisted on giving us the grand tour. Gone were the dusty old prefabs we remembered; in their place stood what looked uncannily like a Bond villain’s headquarters. Gleaming new facilities, briefing suites with more screens than NASA, and a gym so vast it made ours look like a school hall with dumbbells. They even had a smoothie bar tucked inside HQ. We half-expected someone to hand us a cold-pressed kale juice before launching into a briefing on influence operations.

That evening, to our surprise—and mild panic—we discovered we were to be guests of honour at the Officers’ Mess. Thankfully, we’d packed our Mess Kit. Of course we had. You never know when a formal dinner with U.S. Army brass will be sprung on you. After a little tactical breathing in and a few whispered prayers to the tailoring gods, the jackets still fit. The Americans were suitably impressed. Marlin and I looked like we’d stepped straight out of Private Benjamin—or maybe GI Jane on a good hair day—while the lads did their best to look dignified without bursting a seam.

The night unfolded in fine Mess tradition: excellent food, dangerously full glasses, and stories that grew steadily more outrageous with every pour of bourbon. By dessert, someone had managed to convince a young lieutenant that we’d once broadcast enemy surrender instructions through North Korean karaoke machines. Did we deny it? Absolutely not. Why spoil a perfectly good legend?

The next morning, bleary-eyed, slightly dehydrated, and held together mainly by ibuprofen and sheer willpower, we found ourselves giving a presentation to the entire 4 pog unit—or at least every soul who wasn’t deployed. That worked out to about a thousand troops packed into an auditorium big enough to host a rock concert. Mildly intimidating, considering we’d prepped a breezy one-hour talk with a few slides and the odd anecdote.

Four hours later, we were still up there. The questions kept coming—some sharp, some bizarre. One private asked if British tea really was that much better, so Johan launched into a ten-minute lecture on kettles. Someone else asked about psyops in Northern Ireland, and Vinka somehow ended up teaching them the difference between sarcasm and irony using a flip chart and some questionable doodles. At one point, Marlin got roped into explaining rugby to an entire row of Marines who thought “scrum” was just a software term.

It got to the stage where we were dangerously close to improvising with sock puppets to keep the energy up. Thankfully, salvation came in the form of the lunch bell—yes, an actual bell, rung with the enthusiasm of a man saving us from ourselves. If it hadn’t gone off when it did, we’d probably have ended up acting out the Battle of Goose Green with hand signals and bad accents.

Still, they loved it. And so did we. There’s something deeply reassuring about discovering the universal military truth: no PowerPoint presentation, no matter how carefully planned, ever survives contact with the audience.

After the lunch bell saved us from sock-puppet theatre, we spilled out into the mess hall with the troops. The Americans were keen—very keen. Within minutes we were surrounded by curious young soldiers asking everything from “What’s it like to serve with the SAS?” to “Is Marmite a real food or just a hazing ritual?” One particularly earnest sergeant tried to swap MRE jalapeño cheese spread for one of our spare berets. Tempting, but no.

Cultural misunderstandings were everywhere. Johan was asked what football team he supported, and when he said “Hitchin RFC,” the poor lad thought it was some obscure Premier League club. Marlin got a dozen questions about whether British officers really still carry swords. She smiled sweetly and replied, “Only at weddings.” And me? I got cornered by a group who wanted to know if all British soldiers drank tea in the middle of firefights. I told them yes, and if the kettle broke, we called it a tactical withdrawal. They actually wrote that down.

By the time dessert came round, we were practically running our own Q&A stall. The questions got stranger as the sugar high kicked in. “Do you really call your rucksacks bergens?” “Do you guys actually eat black pudding, or is that just a dare?” “Why do you drive on the wrong side of the road?” (To which Stephen replied, “Because it’s the right side.” Cue confused looks all round.)

It was daft, it was brilliant, and it reminded us why we loved these exchanges so much. Different uniforms, same sense of humour—well, mostly.

Our last night at Fort Liberty was exactly as you’d expect—rowdy, heartfelt, and fuelled by bourbon that probably doubled as aviation fuel. The lads from 4 pog pulled out all the stops: barbecue the size of a small country, music blaring from speakers that could rattle teeth, and endless toasts to “coalition friendship.” By the end, we’d signed more unit T-shirts than a boy band on tour.

There were hugs, backslaps, and the usual military promises of, “See you on your side of the pond next year”—promises we fully intended to keep. Someone even presented us with a 4 pog coin the size of an old crown, which I nearly dropped into my beer. The speeches were mercifully short, but the laughter went long into the night.

The next morning, with heads pounding and hearts full, we packed up the car and waved goodbye to our American counterparts. They stood in the car park like an honour guard, hands raised, some still clutching takeaway coffees like weapons against the hangover.

And then it was back to the coast, back to Wilmington, and back to Salamanca—our trusty ship waiting patiently, looking smug as if to say, “Had your fun? Right then. Time to get sailing again.”

A couple of days later, fully recharged and running mostly on Dunkin’ Donuts and tall tales of psychological warfare, we were back aboard Salamanca. Her sleek bow pointed north, the sails full, and our next waypoint set: Norfolk, Virginia—not to be confused with our Norfolk, which features more rain, fewer admirals, and the occasional sheep.

The mission was simple: catch up with some old U.S. Navy friends, one of whom had inconveniently been promoted to Admiral. That meant starched collars, formal protocols, and, in theory, absolutely no room for nautical nonsense. In theory.

Normally, visiting yachts have to anchor somewhere vaguely near a marina snack bar and beg permission to use the showers. Not us. Thanks to our Admiral chum—who still remembered us from a joint training exercise involving psyops, a goat, and an inflatable dinghy—we were waved straight into the heart of the naval base.

And not just anywhere—we berthed Salamanca right alongside some very serious-looking warships. Let’s just say the contrast was… noticeable. Them: endless greys, angular lines, bristling with antennae and firepower. Us: gleaming white hull, solar arch glinting in the sun, and the Army Defaced Blue Ensign fluttering proudly from the stern. It was the maritime equivalent of pulling a classic sports car into a tank hangar. Impressive? Definitely. Subtle? Not in the slightest.

To top it all off, the Admiral hosted a full-blown dinner in our honour—smart uniforms, polished shoes, seating plans that looked like they’d been drafted by NATO, and more cutlery than even Marlin and I knew what to do with (and that’s saying something). For once, none of us dared complain about the stiffness of mess jackets—it felt like we’d stumbled into the Navy’s answer to Downton Abbey.

What floored us most wasn’t the silverware or the ceremony—it was the people. Every sailor, civilian, or somewhere-in-between type we passed stopped, looked us in the eye, and said, “Thank you for your service.” No fanfare, no fuss—just genuine gratitude. It was humbling, disarming, and—if I’m honest—slightly addictive. If you’re ever feeling a bit low, just wander around America in a set of Blues. Your self-esteem will soar faster than a Tomcat on afterburners.

Of course, no proper military evening is ever complete without the inevitable: “Could you just do a quick talk tomorrow?” We should’ve known better, but we said yes. Again. What was billed as a tidy one-hour session turned into a three-and-a-half-hour odyssey. We barely limped through the first half-dozen slides before the questions started flying like tracer rounds.

“How did psyops work in Bosnia?” “What kit did you use in Helmand?” “What’s it like sailing full-time?” And my personal favourite: “Is it true Brits drink tea in the middle of firefights?” (Answer: yes, but only when the kettle’s on.) We tried—honestly tried—to keep things brief. But every short reply grew legs, sprouted arms, and became a full-blown anecdote. Then the anecdotes turned into group debates, and before long we were basically running a symposium on British banter. At this rate, we’re going to need a tour manager, a roadie, and a PowerPoint assistant named Doug.

Still, we adored every minute. The laughter, the wide-eyed curiosity, the sense of shared mischief across uniforms—it reminded us why we kept saying yes. And judging by the standing ovation, and the four autographed hats we were ceremoniously presented with afterwards, the feeling was mutual.

When departure day rolled around, the Admiral himself came down to the dock to see us off. There we were, scrambling with fenders and lines like any other yachties, while he stood immaculate in his whites, looking like a man who’d never tripped over a mooring rope in his life. He shook our hands, thanked us warmly, and insisted we come back “anytime.” We weren’t sure if that meant us personally or any eccentric Brits with a Blue Ensign and too many cameras, but either way, it was a generous send-off.

As Salamanca glided out of the berth, sailors from the nearby destroyer lined the rail, waving and snapping photos like we were some sort of celebrity yacht. One joker even shouted, “God save the Queen!” which nearly had Johan dropping the boathook in surprise. With the Army Defaced Blue Ensign snapping proudly in the breeze, Salamanca looked every inch the dignified guest among her steel-clad hosts.

We slipped past the towering grey hulls, out through the naval gates, and back into the open sea. Norfolk faded astern, and with it the formality, the fanfare, and the bourbon hangovers. Ahead lay the long sail up the Eastern Seaboard, the lure of New York glittering on the horizon, and the thrill of knowing Salamanca had just pulled off the ultimate party trick: sneaking into the world’s biggest naval base and leaving as a star.

With summer creeping closer and Broadway practically jazz-handing us from afar, we pointed Salamanca’s bow toward New York. Three hundred nautical miles later—clear skies, friendly winds, and just enough swell to earn our theatre tickets—we were closing in fast. The city rose from the horizon like an enormous stage set, the skyline looking too perfect to be real.

Sailing past the Statue of Liberty was the kind of moment you file under “life highlights.” There she stood, torch aloft, gaze fixed squarely on our solar arch as though she wasn’t quite sure what to make of us. Then Ellis Island slipped by—a reminder of millions who’d arrived with dreams in their pockets—while we breezed in from the Caribbean with salty hair, silly grins, and a laundry pile that could’ve qualified for heritage status.

We glided into Liberty Landing Marina with as much grace as four slightly overexcited sailors could muster—which is to say, not much. Thankfully, an old friend had offered up his berth for free. “Mi marina es su marina,” he’d said—music to our wallets, which were still reeling from Cuban rum, Bahamian WiFi, and Florida churros.

It was April now—still brisk enough on deck in the evenings to make you appreciate a decent jumper—but our hearts were warm with anticipation. Broadway shows, hot dogs from street carts, and the near certainty of getting hopelessly lost on the subway at least twice. Salamanca was snug, New York was calling, and we were ready to play tourists with medals jangling quietly in our kitbags.

Naturally, we’d managed to bag tickets for some of Broadway’s biggest hitters. And don’t get us wrong—they were spectacular, brimming with talent, colour, and enough jazz hands to signal in aircraft. But American theatre has one speed: go big or go home.

Subtlety? Nuance? Gently whispered soliloquies? Not a chance. Instead, we got tap-dancing firemen, witches flying overhead, and ensemble numbers that could probably be heard in Boston. It was gloriously over the top, and we lapped up every minute of it. Still, we couldn’t help but miss the quiet charm of the West End—cosy theatres, cut-glass accents, and interval ice creams that don’t require a small bank loan.

One of our most sobering stops was the 9/11 Memorial. We stood there in silence, the sound of the water falling into the voids filling the air, and felt the weight of history pressing in. For once, there were no jokes, no banter—just quiet reflection.

We couldn’t help but think back on how that single day had altered the course of our lives. The attacks changed the world—and in many ways launched the second act of our military careers. Standing at the edge of those pools, names etched into bronze, it was grounding, humbling, and a reminder of why we’d served. In the heart of the busiest city on earth, we found ourselves in a rare pocket of stillness.

Still, never ones to wallow, we decided to balance things out with a bit of fitness—or at least our version of it. Central Park became our training ground, though “running” was perhaps too generous a word once you factored in the bagels, pizza slices, and pretzels we were demolishing daily. I called it “operational manoeuvres in urban terrain.”

Marlin, ever the pragmatist, preferred “tactical calorie displacement.” Either way, we managed a handful of respectable laps, dodged about a dozen cyclists with death wishes, and only got chased by squirrels twice. For added entertainment, Johan insisted on carrying a rugby ball, passing it back and forth as we jogged. The amused onlookers clearly couldn’t decide if we were training for the Six Nations or just four lunatics loose in New York. Either way, we gave them a show.

If Central Park was our training ground, then the New York subway was our battlefield. Every trip underground started with Johan giving a full-blown mission brief, complete with hand signals and phrases like “ingress point” and “extraction route.” He even tried drawing a diagram on a napkin once, which confused the barista and delayed our train.

And yes, the rugby ball came with us. Don’t ask why—it just did. At one point Johan insisted on tucking it under his arm like he was about to sprint down the Piccadilly line, except we were in midtown Manhattan. The looks we got… commuters genuinely weren’t sure if we were eccentric tourists, a lost rugby squad, or part of some avant-garde street performance.

Naturally, we got lost. More than once. At one station we managed to board three wrong trains in a row, ending up so far off course we briefly considered declaring it an “unplanned reconnaissance.” Each wrong platform became an impromptu huddle, the rugby ball at the centre like it was part of a secret playbook. To be fair, the locals seemed entertained—though one old chap just shook his head and muttered, “Bloody tourists.”

By the time we finally cracked the system and popped up in the right part of town, we felt like conquering heroes. Slightly sweaty, definitely confused, and still clutching the rugby ball, but heroes nonetheless.

After three whirlwind weeks of Broadway razzle-dazzle, pretzel overload, and dodging Manhattan’s famously indifferent taxi drivers by a hair’s breadth, we finally admitted defeat. New York had been loud, dazzling, and marvellously manic, but the sea was calling—and this time it wasn’t just whispering, it was belting out an Irish shanty while waving a pint of Guinness.