Top Gun/Top Banana (Sort of): My Royal Navy Detour

Flight school, a survival instructor’s boot, and the dream that crash-landed.

There was a moment, not long after finishing my Biochem degree, when I looked around at all the sensible, lab-coated graduates discussing molecules—and thought, Nope.

I didn’t want to be pipetting enzymes for the rest of my life. I wanted to fly.

So, I joined the Royal Navy with dreams of becoming a naval aviator. It’s not the most obvious career pivot, but let’s be honest: nothing about my life path has followed the usual flight plan.

Basic officer training at BRNC Dartmouth was awful and hilarious at the same time.

Navigator (Observer) training in 38 Flight was intense, surreal, and occasionally dangerous (Helicopter Underwater Escape Training - thanks to nearly being accidentally drowned (murdered) by Sub Lt. Andy Glover).

There was camaraderie, adrenaline, and the unmistakable smell of pride and ambition (and stinky socks). I made great mates. I learned how to push my limits. And for a while, it felt like everything was aligning. Maybe the meningitis-rewired, emotionally bulletproof version of me had found his calling in the clouds.

Then came the Royal Naval Survival School (survival training).

Specifically, the survival instructor’s boot. Which met my back with the kind of force that suggests he may have had unresolved childhood issues. The nasty piece of work (Sub Lt X) ended up on national TV (Panorama) a few years later after causing severe brain injuries to a trainee pilot due to terrible cruelty. Yes, as the dehydrated trainee lay exhausted on the ground, the instructor laughed, urinated on him, and left him for dead.

I suppose I was lucky.

Anyway, my injury was no joke. It left me unable to walk for a season and certainly unable to fly. And just like that, the dream crash-landed.

I was grounded, both physically and metaphorically. It felt like failure. Like another door slamming shut. But here’s the thing about dreams: sometimes they reroute you toward something unexpected.

That detour—painful and frustrating as it was—eventually led me to join the Leicestershire Police and into the most dangerous, bizarre, and ultimately redemptive chapters of my life.

But that’s for the next blog.

For now, I raise a glass to all the dreams that didn’t take off the runway or helipad and the characters (and questionable stories) they leave behind. Sometimes the so-called dream door closes, and another one opens.

It’s all part of the journey, not the final destination.