Warrior Training (23 page)

‘Cheers, mate,' one said. They were cool. Some guys stayed, some paddled in.

I've read that sharks have no apprehension about approaching something if they are twice its size. Perhaps that's why this one didn't follow through. It was lining up the back of Brendon's board when it would have sensed two other shadows – Chris and I – moving its way. I guess it didn't expect that. Either that or, as Brendon said, it changed its mind when it noticed that he was a ranga – a redhead – and that his white legs were a little too raw for consumption.

On the beach, a fisherman told me that he was out there last week in a 22-foot boat when a 15-foot great white shark came alongside for a look.

‘Yeah, they're out there,' I said.

‘Sure are – it's where they live,' he replied.

I returned home and was met by Tahlie and one of her equally impatient friends, Kate. ‘Dad, how was the surf – is it big?'

‘Nah, it's just okay,' I replied.

‘Can we go now?' asked Tahlie.

During the summer holidays, I usually run a bit of training for the children who are competing at the NSW Surf Life Saving state titles. The kids are amazing. At just eight or
nine years of age they have already developed a deep love of the ocean. Depending on the conditions, they usually paddle around the buoy half a dozen times and then finish off with a few waves.

At 0800 we were back down at the beach. Bob, Kate's dad, sent the dozen or so kids on a warm-up run while I told their parents about what I'd seen. No one was too concerned, but we ran a modified session. Chris volunteered to hang out the back on a rescue board and provided water safety while the kids practised ins and outs in the surf zone. At the end of the session, a few of the kids hung around to catch waves. Jake, a keen 14-year-old, asked if he could paddle out the back.

‘If you want – just be careful,' I said.

‘You coming?' he asked. ‘You don't have to.'

I laughed. I knew there was something I liked about this kid.

‘Yeah, I'll come with ya.' Chris and I joined him out the back and caught a few waves.

‘Hey, Chris,' I said. ‘We never did finish that session. We've still got one more to go. Can't let a shark interfere with our training – gotta get back on the horse!' I said.

‘Yeah, we do. No point delaying it,' replied Chris, grinning.

Although I was a little apprehensive, I was determined to get back out to the buoy as soon as possible. It had been two hours since the incident.
That's long enough
, I thought. The three of us paddled to the buoy, had a look around, then paddled back in.

‘You training Friday?' asked Chris.

‘Yeah, same time. See you then.'

We thought that would be the end of it, but later that day someone called the local paper and I was invited down to the beach for an interview.

‘Look, nothing really happened,' I said over the phone. ‘A large head broached the surface next to a few of us and an hour later we were down there with the kids.' I declined to do an interview because I didn't want to add to the exaggerated media frenzy and discourage people from enjoying the ocean.

The next day, on the front page of the local paper was a picture of a great white leaping out of the water. The story was titled ‘Thirroul Surfers' Close Encounter: Great White Shark Scare'. All of a sudden, the story read, a ‘3.5 metre white pointer menaced surfers … [and] flashed its pearly whites.' The beach was also ‘cleared within minutes'.

I hadn't seen any teeth, and half a dozen surfers continued to catch waves. Now that's quality investigative journalism. I was also quoted as saying: ‘It sort of jumped out of the water right next to one of the guys, had a look around and then dived down and swam off.' My nan picked up the paper, read the article and nearly had a heart attack when she saw my name.

Although the article was an extreme example of poetic license – in other words, bullshit – I was impressed by how Chris and Brendon remained calm after we learned about what was lurking beneath us. For me, and obviously for them, fear of letting our mates down well surpassed our fear of being eaten.

Life in the SAS was both mentally and physically challenging. I thrived on this combination. I also knew that my decision to leave such a lifestyle so I could be a dad had left me vulnerable; I missed the camaraderie, the action and the intellectual stimulation. If I was to have any chance of breaking away, it was vital that I looked forward and set myself new challenges.

Very little, if anything, that lives lasts forever. In some ways it would be nice to know the precise moment when we will draw our last breath. Armed with this knowledge, we might well get on with living, rather than thinking about what was, or what could have been.

When I was employed as a special-operations advisor in the United Arab Emirates, my boss, a former British special-forces soldier, offered some advice when he realised I was struggling with my transition away from the Regiment.

‘Keith, we all think about going back. Most guys struggle for at least two years, but I think it'll take you three.'

In fact even he was wrong. For almost six years I wrestled with thoughts of returning to the Regiment. Even in the two years since leaving the private security industry, I've battled hard to remain at home. I missed the camaraderie, the rush of adrenaline and that feeling you get when you're being challenged under extreme conditions. When job offers arrived, I often deleted the emails without opening them, so as to not be tempted back into the fray.
I didn't trust myself, so I kept busy writing, studying, training and looking after our three children.

When SAS soldiers leave the Regiment – often to spend more time with family or to seek new challenges – they usually feel as if life has lost its spark. You wake up in the morning and, for the first time in years, struggle to crawl out of bed. Even for those who are gainfully employed, their new jobs just don't cut it compared to life in the Regiment. It takes time for a soldier to detune, to wind down and to appreciate the other things life has to offer.

These are normal feelings that many people experience. When professional athletes retire, when mothers or fathers take time out to raise their children or when people leave the workforce, there is always a period of transition that they must negotiate. Leaving something that you're good at is difficult. You might have thoughts – insecurities – that you'll never reach that level of achievement again. Walking away can be an even greater challenge than getting there in the first place. Initially, there is a void, a chasm so deep and so wide that constructing a bridge over it to a new life seems impossible.

After I gave an interview last year following publication of
Warrior Brothers
, a psychologist approached me and said: ‘Keith, after listening to some of your experiences, I must say that you sound surprisingly normal.'

I laughed.
You really have no idea
, I thought. He asked me if I'd ever received professional counselling, as he dealt with many former special-forces soldiers who were finding the transition to a civilian lifestyle unbearable.

‘No, I haven't,' I said.

‘That's interesting. Many soldiers who experience
combat are wound super-tight. They wake up in the middle of the night with elevated pulse rates. With no release, they struggle to come back down. I would like to know how you did it.'

‘Writing my book was cathartic,' I said, ‘but it was the new challenges and intense training sessions that kept me grounded when I was vulnerable to that. I'd sometimes grab a piece of paper and write down what I most wanted out of life. Having a relationship with my kids was right up there, and I set about making sure that happened. I think the attributes that helped me to get into the Regiment were the same ones that helped me to walk away. I also realised that, first and foremost, I was a person, a man. I didn't define myself by my job title.'

‘What do you mean?' asked the psychologist.

‘Well, being an SAS soldier was what I did for a job. To be honest, it was more than that – it was a lifestyle. But just because I left the SAS, it didn't mean that I was anything less than what I was. For example, if you're a company CEO and you define yourself by your position, you could struggle with a loss of identity when you leave the job. It's the same for a sports star. I wouldn't call Roger Federer simply a tennis star – he's much more than that. He's a man with strengths and weaknesses. He's a man who is committed and has worked hard to become one of the best tennis players in history. But if he didn't play tennis, then he most likely would have excelled at something else.'

‘That's true, Keith, but negotiating the middle ground, from one life to another, is where most people struggle.'

‘I think it's where everyone struggles. I had to set myself new and realistic goals. I had to concentrate on where I
wanted to go rather than where I had been. But I still find it difficult.'

For me, a divided loyalty is a hell of a thing to live with. Leaving my family for an operational deployment always felt similar to not being there with the boys when they suffered casualties. The latter has an even greater effect on me.

Colleen and I had every intention of returning to Perth for the Regiment's fiftieth anniversary celebrations in 2007. We had even booked our flights, but I didn't get on the plane. I knew it was still too early to go back. If I caught up with the boys and heard their stories, then the chances were good that I'd be straight back in. But I'd also be single and the next time I took a breath I'd be 40, maybe even 50. At best I'd have a mediocre relationship with my children, as I have an ‘all or nothing' personality. If you're a former alcoholic, there's no such thing as drinking in moderation. It's the same for a soldier. To perform, I would have to throw myself into the job with total commitment. Total commitment would mean my family once again came second. It was time to move on.

How does one transition from an adrenalised lifestyle as an SAS soldier and security contractor, working in some of the world's most hostile locations, to a life as a husband and home dad?

I left the SAS in 2002 and moved with my family to the United Arab Emirates, where I was employed as a special-operations advisor. With no chance of being deployed, I felt like a young man in an old man's job. Most of my
colleagues were at least a decade my senior, while some were even older than my parents. Although I was with my family, I was plagued by a gnawing feeling that never went away. For a soldier, watching others deploy is like having a rat in your stomach. No matter how much you feed the fucker, it's always hungry. I lasted 16 months before I caved in and disappeared into Iraq.

In a lifestyle that many would consider to be selfish and narcissistic, I met some of the most selfless men I had ever known. Some men delayed their leave by three months or volunteered for the most dangerous tasks not because they had a death wish, but because they wanted to be there to support their mates if things went wrong.

I spent 30 months running operations all over Iraq and Afghanistan, deploying hundreds of consultants on thousands of road moves as part of the reconstruction effort. I was proud that, during that time, we did not suffer or inflict one single casualty. Because I felt uneasy deploying the guys I led most of the road moves. I'm sure my wife – and my mother – would have questioned this decision, but I was genuinely torn between being a proactive husband and father, and supporting my mates who were in harm's way.

In time, I made the decision to leave and return permanently to my family so I could get to know my children. I thought that leaving my action-filled lifestyle would be relatively easy. I was wrong. The transition – like two cars colliding – was chaos. My first day as a home dad was a disaster.

‘Where are the nappies?' I asked Colleen as she hurried out the door to work.

‘You'll work it out,' she replied, blowing me a kiss. A large smile was plastered across her face. Our three children, Tahlie, Sian and Reyne – aged six, four and two – must have thought:
Who's this pretender? He has no idea
.

My first goal was to get Tahlie to school on time. ‘Tahlie, what would you like in your lunch?'

‘I don't know,' she replied.

Where is there to go from there? At first I was nice, thinking up half a dozen options. But Tahlie remained undecided. After 10 very frustrating minutes, I made a decision and smothered her sandwich with Vegemite. The result – tears.

‘I don't like Vegemite,' she cried.

‘Then what
would
you like?' I asked.

‘Nutella.'

I threw the Vegemite sandwich in the bin and made one with Nutella. I thought this resolved the whole issue, but as it turned out I had cut the sandwich into squares rather than triangles. More tears, another wasted sandwich, and then it was time to do the girls' hair.

‘I want piggies,' said Sian.

‘Me too,' said Tahlie.

I gave it a go but no matter how hard I tried, one pigtail always seemed to look twice the size of the other. I settled on ponytails instead and accepted the obvious – more tears. I then heard the radio say it was 10 minutes to nine.

‘Quick, kids, brush your teeth, we've got to go,' I yelled.

I bundled Reyne and Sian into the sports pram. We had four minutes to get to school. It was going to be close but I was confident we could make it.

‘Dad, Reyne's done a poo in his nappy,' said Tahlie.

‘Oh well, he'll just have to sit in it for now – we're not going to be late for school.'

‘But it's coming out the sides.'

I peered into the pram and was mortified.
How could such a small child make such a vile mess?
I thought. There was shit everywhere.

I yelled at the kids to come back inside as I quickly put Reyne into the bath. With this complete, and much to Tahlie's disapproval, I squashed all three kids into the pram and, like a man possessed, ran down the hill, the kids hanging on for their lives.

We arrived several minutes after the bell. I didn't bother going to the office to fill out a late note. I preferred denial and definitely didn't need a piece of paper telling me I had screwed up.

We arrived home to a ringing telephone.
I bet it's Colleen checking up on me
, I thought.
Doesn't she know I was in the SAS?

‘Hi, babe, just wanted to let you know that you have mothers' group at 9.30. The kids need the stimulation.'

‘Stimulation? I've never been more stimulated in my entire life. I've just spent the last 10 minutes squashing little faecal nuggets down the plug-hole after Reyne defecated in his jumpsuit.'

‘Not you, the kids. It's not all about you.'

I threw Sian and Reyne back into the pram and we descended the hill once again, albeit at a much slower pace this time. I didn't mind being late for this one.

That evening, while I was standing at the sink scrubbing burnt chicken from the frypan, Colleen bounced through the door, all smiles.

‘How was your day?' she enquired.

I wanted to lie and tell her that it was easy, but all these other words came out: ‘I wanted to strangle the little bastards. It was hideous. What did you do to relieve the stress?'

‘What do you mean?' she said, laughing.

‘I don't know. Do we have anything to drink?'

‘Like what?'

‘Methylated spirits … Something strong to numb my brain,' I spluttered.

After a couple of weeks, I stopped burning the chicken and enrolled at uni. At the end of my first semester, I began to write. I was also employed on a four-day performance training camp for the Australian rugby union team, the Wallabies. Besides catching up with a few of my mates from the Regiment, it was rewarding to work with such highly committed and tough athletes. I was particularly impressed by Phil Waugh, the modest warrior. These men were already high-performing so our aim was to further build their sense of teamwork, and to offer guidance on leadership and decision-making under stress. After six months hanging out with my kids, I felt I was more than qualified for that.

The six members of my team had a tremendous esprit de corps and were committed to taking it to another level. On one afternoon, sitting atop a ridgeline in south-eastern Queensland, the guys were encouraged to share something personal with their mates. This was one of the most moving experiences of my life. I was humbled by the Wallabies' honesty and commitment to each other. There was much more to these guys than brawn.