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I felt so incredibly happy and grateful just to be able to have dinner with my kids, play with them, take them to the playground and have sushi on the beach. Little things like being able to read to them and hug them in bed at night felt like a dream coming true. I was on cloud nine and tempted to have them both sleeping with me so that I could keep hugging them.

The great news kept coming my way. I fell back in the arms of my tall, gorgeous blond after a break. We were both full of fears and scars from our failed marriages, which sometimes tore us away from each other. We had a lot of work to do to make it work. It was finally time to make room for life, to be happy and to get rid of the stress that had affected my life for so long. A couple of months later, my wife signed the divorce papers and officially became my ex-wife. I celebrated because it became a symbol for me. It meant one episode of my life was over and a new one could begin. It was exciting. The sky was the limit. During each mountain bike ride, nature walk or trail run I embraced nature, filled myself up with gratitude and gave my thanks to the forces above. They had been there all along with me and helped me sort my life out.

What started with the many mistakes I made became the life I have created and now decided to share. I took the decision to go full steam ahead with my memoir and publish it one day. I felt relieved and anxious at the same time after making this important decision. I wanted to publish it for Mum and the few friends who have supported me with this or have passed away. What started purely as therapeutical pages turned into a manuscript. The many poor decisions I made helped me fill the pages that I hoped one day would be worth turning for readers. I could finally share in full honesty the misconduct that I have been involved in, the heartache I have caused and the bad calls I have made that created a long stint of heartache for me and everyone involved. I just opened it up to page one, watched the story unfold and knew I had to rewrite it all. There was a lot of work to be done to turn my manuscript into something worth reading, but I was ready.

Dad hugged me. ‘You will always be Belgian, Son, and you belong here with your bricks.’ He whispered in my ear. I later found a little reseal bag with some dirt from the garden and brick fragments from our house that he had hidden in my luggage. Lucky sniffing dogs didn’t find the package when I went through Customs.

I felt much lighter as soon as I set foot on the plane. I had mixed feelings: instant relief and betrayal toward them, but also righteousness. I was finally ready to start my life from scratch I was finally free.

The Steve Irwin movie, Crocodile Hunter, was playing on the plane. OMG, what a thick accent, if they were all going to talk like this, I was not going to understand a thing. I needed the subtitles on and a rock-hard focus to translate his slang.

I landed in Melbourne in October 2002, jumped on the Gull Bus and arrived on Tim’s porch. I just owned a bike bag with only my bike and clothes in it. I had no money, no job, no degree. 

It was a new world that I mildly feared, but I wanted to become part of it quickly. Geelong was the place of opportunity, rebirth and excitement. I didn’t know much, except that I loved the weather, the people, the beaches, nature, and how could I forget, its triathlon culture.

I found the Aussies so friendly and welcoming but hard to get a deep connection with. They were not as emotional as Europeans and would not invite me into their homes until they called me a close friend. Friendship groups were hard to crack into; you had to work and be deserving of your spot. My sister’s reaction when she started living in Geelong was that she had never seen such an all-or-nothing culture. Women were either bitchy or super nice, and men were either extreme—Alpha male or down-to-earth cool guys. People were either overweight or super fit. I must say I agreed with her. I felt like I always had to prove myself to them and they often created a competitive atmosphere towards me. It was what we call a ‘biggest dick competition’ here. I had no interest in this sort of game. I always proved myself on race day. I also felt like I could not be direct when I spoke, like we were in Europe. I had to say in two minutes what took me ten seconds to say in Belgium or people would crack it and leave, offended. I was often called blunt or rude. I thought they retained the Anglo-Saxon culture.

The Aussie sense of humour matched the Belgian sense of humour, which was also cheeky, but I was stunned by how far strangers pushed the boundaries. I was told people did this when they liked you. An Aussie who did not like you wouldn’t talk to you. If they really liked you, they would hang shit on you like this.

I went out with my tri friends one night and I went up to the bar to order a Coca Cola. The lovely female bar tender did not understand a thing, so I went back to the table and pointed at the glass bottle with the famous white writing on its sides. ‘What do you call this? She could not understand me,’ I said in my thick French accent.

‘You need to ask for a cock mate, not a Coca Cola’. So I went back. ‘I’ll have a cock, please,’ I said. She laughed and said, ‘Someone is pulling a joke on you, love. Just point to what you want. You call this a Coke. A cock is what is in your pants, love.’ I wondered why she was calling me love. I didn’t even know her. Was she into me?’

I was ready for my first triathlon and ready to beat mum. She was 35 and I was 12. Mum was in fine form having won her last two races, and I felt only one thing—ready. Not intimidated by her or anyone else in fact. The ultimate goal was to beat her. We drove across the border for about an hour and I dreamed about beating Dave Scott in Kona in the lava fields one day while looking at his picture in my French triathlon magazine. I could not wait to get to the race and jumped out of the car in excitement. Dad showed me how to set up a transition in details patiently.

‘Winning is all about the tiny detail,’ he said, while looking at me with love.

He did not want to race today so that he could witness this exciting family feud firsthand. He was on photo and cheering duties. Not sure who he had his money on that day; I never asked him.

I stood on the start line, trembling, anxious and filled with the poisonous nervous energy that I later worked out could empty you of all of your strength and energy. Breathe and relax I kept telling myself, just breathe. I was excited for the triathlon world to see this new rising star, I thought in full confidence.

I glanced at Mum Rocky Balboa style, with the eyes of the tiger, but I never saw fear in her eyes, only love, respect and joy. She was enjoying this as much as I was.

We kissed and hugged as a family, but as soon as the gun went off, we raced as foreigners and enemies. Dad always told me that there was no friendship during a race. Friends are friends only before and after, but never during the race. There was no friendship or family once I jumped in the murky canal waters. No wetsuit needed; the water was warm enough.

She swam better than me; I did not sight enough and swam extra distance because of this. I was devo but I wasn’t quitting yet. I jumped on my aluminium steed superman style and pedalled hard like there was no tomorrow. I caught her at the 5 kilometres-to-go mark with my oversized triathlon singlet flapping in the air, arrived in T2, transition number 2, and jumped off my bike clumsily. I felt like a cat jumping off on thorns then and I hissed in panic in the heavy landing, which luckily was on grass. I got changed quickly, sprinted out of transition and ran for my life. Catch me if you can, I thought in full cockiness. Sweat was pouring down my face, blinding my eyes. My head was cursing with pain and my heart felt like it was about to implode.

Don’t stop. Keep running. You can nearly see the finish line, no time to drop on your knees to beg mum for mercy. Don’t be a fucking softy, keep pushing, I swore at myself.

But with one kilometre to go on the run she caught me.

‘Whose ass is being dropped now,’ she said as she sprinted past and slapped me on the ass. I could not say anything back, and the only thing I let rip out of my chest was the panting that sounded like it was coming from a dying wild beast. I tried to keep up and jump in her steps, but a meter quickly turned into two, five, ten. I had no reply, no more goes in me. She passed me like I was standing still. I was done, cooked. I had lost fair and square and my ego was bruised. My world collapsed; no excuses, Mum was simply better today. I closed my eyes for a moment in defeat while running onto the grass finishing chute. The pain I felt when they called out her name at the finish line before me resonated in my head like a bad tune stuck in there on repeat. She crossed the line as the winner for the day, broke the tape and raised her hands to the sky, not sure if she had won overall or not, but she had.

I wanted to be the king that day, but the queen took over in winning fashion and she looked radiant as she stood on her throne disguised as a podium for the day. I applauded her in pain and jealousy, but in love and admiration as well. She lay there in the grass, trophy in hand, momentarily tanning like a Hollywood star and looked the part in a sport where looks are everything. She looked up at me and smiled.

‘How did you go, Fanou? Did you enjoy it?’

‘I did, Mum. And you?’

I felt pretty upset with myself for letting her beat me, so I cut it pretty short. As we walked away back to the car, she gently put her hand on my shoulder and I told her that this would never happen again. She had so much life and joy in her eyes and so many praises for me on the tip of her tongue.

The day of my departure arrived. My little girl looked at me with tears in her eyes. ‘I love you, Daddy,’ she said while giving me the card she had drawn for me. It was full of love hearts and featured a photo of the home I was about to leave behind. She probably thought that I was going on a holiday to see my family. I saw her broken heart, and the guilt amplified this image a thousand times. I wanted to tell her that I will mend her heart when I am strong again.

Jake was too young. He was clueless as to what was happening. They had no idea that Daddy was leaving because Daddy was not living here anymore. It broke me to leave my seven- and nine-year-old kids behind, but I had to go. I hugged them tightly, wept all the tears I had left in my body. This broken heart of mine had gone through pain beyond what words can define. I went back to my temporary home to pack my bike. There was no-one to hear my cries of despair. I struggled through every heartbeat but I still did not want to accept defeat.

Time after time my heart had been ripped apart, often by my own doing, and I did not know if it was still my heart or just a life machine with chambers full of regrets. It seemed too shattered to be restored. I looked up at my wife with love and tenderness. ‘You have torn my heart apart beyond belief, there is no relief from this pain and torture,’ I felt like telling her, but I didn’t. I knew it would be futile.

I was stuck in the jail I had built around myself, brick by brick, soaking in regrets. I decided it was better not to see my kids at all for a while instead of seeing so little of them. Leaving for Europe to be with my family there seemed the right thing to do and I took the risk knowing how much it would affect that little blonde girl with light blue eyes and my sensitive, sweet little boy. I was afraid that they would lose me if I stayed.

I often thought it would be a nice way to leave this world by swimming out in the ocean, to soak in its beauty until it was time to surrender into Poseidon’s arms. I was happy to retire into the deep ocean—the beautiful banners of green and the mosaic of blues—and have the scent of the spray of the last rolling billow as incense at my burial. The lullaby of the anthem of the winds would filter through my hair, my grief would turn into offerings of love and my tears would mix with the element in which I would finally feel safe. I was happy for my soul to leave my body in the eternal crystalline water of the deep ocean.