By: Hunter Owen
“Damn it!”
My youngest son’s face went pale as the treble hook from his lure buried itself into the meat of my forearm. He dropped his rod, eyes wide with panic, lips starting to quiver. I took a deep breath—not because it didn’t hurt, but because I could see the fear in his eyes. That fear hurt worse than the hook.
Then, I laughed. A deep, honest laugh. The kind I didn’t know I still had in me.
“Buddy,” I told him, “if this is the worst thing that happens today, we’re doing just fine.”
The worry melted off his face. A giggle slipped out of him too. And just like that, we were okay. He was okay.
That’s the thing about these moments—they sneak up on you in the most ordinary ways. I’ve been a soldier for most of my adult life—seven deployments, five in combat zones. I’ve missed more family milestones than I care to count. My memories are stitched together with mortar fire, missed phone calls, and the ache of absence. I came home with a TBI, PTSD, and the emotional distance of a man who survived by shutting parts of himself off.
But here I am, barefoot on a stretch of Central California beach with three sons who still want to spend time with me. That’s a blessing no battlefield could’ve prepared me for.
We surf fish together—our ritual, our way back to each other. My boys cast spoons for surf perch and halibut, and they tie up high-low rigs for barred perch and corbina. I still haven’t landed a legal halibut! I show them how to read the tide lines, how to check their knots, and how to watch for birds working over bait. But really, it’s not about the fish.
Every time I cast into the surf, it feels like I’m throwing away another fragment of the past. Another sleepless night. Another flashback. Another piece of guilt I’ve carried around like extra gear. Fishing with my kids isn’t just an escape—it’s a form of therapy no prescription could ever match.
And the beach? It’s a place where nothing beeps, nothing alerts, and no one’s checking the time. Just wind and waves and the quiet hum of connection.
The truth is, reintegration is hard. There’s no briefing or checklist for becoming “Dad” again after being “Sergeant” for so long. It’s awkward at first. You overcompensate. You underreact. You try to make up for lost time and quickly realize you can’t. But what you can do is show up. Consistently. Authentically. Even if you get hooked in the arm.
My sons—they meet me where I am. They don’t expect perfection. They just want presence. And somehow, in their company, I find pieces of myself I thought I’d left overseas.
I think a lot about the 7,000-plus service members who didn’t come home from Iraq and Afghanistan. I think about Bean, and Cooper, and how their children may have no memory of them. Fathers and mothers who never got to teach their kids how to bait a hook, how to time the tide, or how to laugh when things go sideways. I carry them with me every time I step into the surf. I honor them by living well. And by showing my boys that there’s life—real, beautiful life—after war.
I don’t pretend it’s all smooth sailing. I still have bad days. The kind where I need to walk away before I raise my voice. The kind where a smell or sound sends me spiraling. But when I’m on the beach with my kids, the fog clears—if only for a little while.
There’s something sacred in the salt air. Something that strips away the hardness and lets softness in. And it’s in that softness that I get to be more than a veteran. I get to be a father. A teacher. A guide.
And every time one of my boys turns to me with a toothy grin, rod in hand, eyes lit with the thrill of the fight on the line—I know I’m right where I need to be.
So, to the veterans out there trying to reconnect, trying to rebuild—go fish. Go hunting. Go find some quiet corner of the world where your phone doesn’t matter and your scars aren’t the first thing people see. Take your kids. Let them see you whole, even if you don’t feel whole yet.
And to everyone else reading this—maybe you didn’t serve. Maybe you don’t know what it’s like to come home to a house full of strangers who love you but don’t recognize the man you became. That’s okay. But know this: for some of us, these simple days of surf and sand are what stand between the war and the peace we’re still trying to find.
So if you see a tired dad on the beach, teaching his son how to rig a line—maybe give him a nod. Because behind every cast, there might be a little healing happening.
And if his kid accidentally hooks him in the arm? Don’t worry. He’s probably laughing.
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Hunter Owen
Hunter was a military brat born in North Carolina, who moved to and grew up in Tampa, Florida. He joined the Army in 2006, and spent the bulk of his career at Fort Bragg, NC. After being medically discharged and spending a short time living and working in Washington D.C., Hunter packed up his family, and moved back to the center of the universe, Fort Bragg, NC. He currently works as a civilian for the Army. Hunter did not grow up in a hunting family and faced many of the same barriers-to-entry of hunting found by many looking to get started. After reaching out to BHA AFI, Hunter quickly became an avid outdoorsman. In his free time Hunter enjoys hunting, fishing, and working to better the public lands we all love.
