“I’ve been there in Iceland when it was like that”, I whispered in the ear of my friend as we watched the film, “A White, White Day”. “You were there in winter, weren’t you?”, she asked to which I replied, “No it was summer. But there were still four seasons in the one day”.
A bus trip in Iceland. When we started out, it was a bright, sunny day. By the end of our trip thirty minutes later, there was a blizzard.
Some of the earliest scenes in the film show people driving along remote roads in Iceland, where the line between the land and the sky blur. It’s all white, it’s all grey.
The only other time I’d experienced something similar was visiting the West Coast of Sweden.
Those road trips are pivotal to the film, as that’s where one of the lead characters comes to an untimely death.
There was an interesting parralel between this film, and the last film I’d seen, “Bellbird”. In both cases, the death of the wife and mother brings about re-evaluation by those left behind, and a series of relationship changes. However, the gentle evolution of relationships found in “Bellbird” is contrasted with the drama of the experiences of those in “A White, White Day”.
There were times when I had to look away. There were some moments of uncomfortable violence. There were moments when you thought the film would go into a much deeper, darker space.
Though “slow” for a while, the film picks up pace towards the end. On top of the cinematography (which is beautiful), the acting and direction are wonderful. In particular, there’s a standout performance by a young actor in the role of the grand-daughter. “Could she look any more Icelandic?”, my friend whispered, referring to her blonde hair and blue eyes.
Despite the darker moments, it was a really enjoyable film, and once which my friend and I both enjoyed. We were both looking forward to the film very much, as we had previously seen the film “Hrutar” / “Rams”, also from Iceland, and also from the same director.
“They punch above their weight”, my friend commented about Icelandic culture more generally. In movies, in music and culture, Iceland has produced some amazing material in recent years.
“I’m having a quiet night. A night without noise”, I told my friend Sue as we chatted online tonight.
Because my life is so full of noise – I listen to the radio at work and at home – sometimes I really need a break. I need a night without noise.
And tonight was one of those nights, those I eventually did end up listening to the radio for a while.
And I also had a couple of phone calls tonight.
I chatted with Graeme for a while about something happening in his life. I chatted with my distant cousin Barry about the forthcoming O’Brien Family Reunion, and I had a phone call from my Swedish teacher, Marianne, confirming the recommencement of classes next Tuesday night.
“How did you cope with all of the hot weather?”, she asked.
“How did you cope with all of the cold weather?’, I responded, as she has spent some time in the last couple of months in Sweden where they’ve regularly recorded sub-zero temperatures, and where I read the other day, Stockholm has recorded its coldest January on record.
But for the most part, tonight I sat in silence.
And no, I don’t mean in a “hello darkness my old friend” depressing kind of way.
I mean in a way of just enjoying the sound of nothing. No TV, no radio. Surprisingly, even the neighbours who normally watch a floor rumbling DVD on Tuesday nights had a quiet one.
For a while I sat on the balcony tonight and just listened to the rain.
Gosh it was good. It’s raining again now, actually. What a welcome relief.
The physical reality of living as a double amputee has fundamentally shaped how Sean Fong has moved through the world.
Growing up in Fiji, Sean had a highly active childhood playing in rivers, waterfalls, and oceans before an accident at seven years old changed everything.
While playing near sugarcane trains, the train ran over his leg at mid-shin, but it was later amputated close to his right hip, which he understands was due to infection and tissue damage.
Long before access to advanced technology, ramps, or accessible infrastructure existed in late-1980s Fiji, Sean had to pioneer his own daily survival.
With his first artificial leg not arriving until nearly two years after the accident—and an early prosthetic arm that felt like an uncomfortable, restrictive harness system akin to a “big, uncomfortable bra”—he relied on resourcefulness.
He famously used an old skateboard to wheel himself across flat surfaces and depended on classmates to push his wheelchair or carry him across stairs.
Following his parents’ split, Sean’s connection to Australia began when his mother met an Australian expat working in Fiji.
After the family settled in New South Wales—initially traveling to Newcastle’s John Hunter Hospital for artificial limbs before moving to the Hills area near Parramatta—Sean finished high school in Australia.
Navigating teenagerhood came with unique challenges, including being steered away from practical subjects like woodwork due to safety limitations on his single arm, which left him carrying deep personal reflections on the accident and his transition into a new country.
Growing up, Sean faced a society often unequipped to see past his physical difference. Reflecting on the shift from being an active participant to an observer, he shared:
Exclusion from sports: “All through school. Go and sit with the girls. The boys are going to play rugby… And it used to eat me up inside.”
Encountering stigma: People quickly reduced him to a label, assuming his physical losses meant he also lacked coordination, sports intelligence, or understanding. As Sean recalled: “I’ve just lost limbs. It’s not like I lost my eyesight or I don’t have any football IQ… And that became my label. You’re the double amputee.”
Dating and societal ideals: As a young man, he was told by peers that girls would never like him because no media representation of “Prince Charming” featured missing limbs.
Navigating nightlife: “When people get drunk, they say inappropriate things”, Sean noted, saying he didn’t avoid clubs and pubs but didn’t want to be there when those interactions happened.
Despite these hurdles, Sean developed a fierce internal resilience. He built a life with his partner of over sixteen years, recently having children.
While modern prostheses feature carbon fibre, microchips, and aerospace materials, Sean notes their limitations for his lifestyle. He has told prosthetists his goal was to have a lifestyle like Bear Grylls, a lifestyle that includes getting wet, sandy and dirty.
“Just build me the toughest thing that you can on a hinge joint and I’ll run with it.”
This pragmatism also carried him to elite sporting success. After a chance encounter at the North Sydney Olympic Pool, he entered Paralympic swimming, eventually claiming a short-course world record in the butterfly.
When a torn rotator cuff halted his swimming career, Sean seamlessly transitioned into Brazilian jiu-jitsu. Wrestling entirely without prosthetics—which would otherwise get in the way or injure training partners—he treats the mat like a high-level game of 3D chess. Because ninety-nine point nine percent of his opponents have two arms and two legs, his unique mechanics often give him an unexpected tactical advantage.
I recommended Sean as a guest for a TV show, made by my colleagues at the ABC, and he has appeared on that program too.
After spending several years working in office administration and managing a Brazilian jiu-jitsu gym in Sydney, Sean and his wife made a major lifestyle shift and moved to Mudgee in the NSW Central West.
Starting out as a local lifeguard before transitioning into disability support work Sean works for Aspire MMA which is a mixed martial arts (MMA) gym in Mudgee. There Sean gets to coach the kids and adults and share his knowledge and experience.
Sean is also a motivational speaker.
Whether dealing with the daily fatigue of public curiosity—where casual strangers treating him as a spectacle can drain his emotional battery—or mentoring individuals with disabilities, Sean says his focus is rooted in shared empathy.
Sean maintains a grounded, philosophically humorous perspective on physical deterioration and human vulnerability:
“The wheels are going to fall off this thing. Either your body or your brain is going to give up. Nobody gets off this ride alive.”
For Sean, living as an amputee is not about seeking pity or dwelling on the past; it is an ongoing, adaptive relationship with oneself, defined by humour, self-reliance, and a refusal to let a label define the boundaries of what is possible.
This article is based on an interview with Sean which will be featured in The Limb Shift podcast, to be released in October 2026, and which is available on Apple, Spotify, YouTube and via https://thelimbshift.com/
Outside working hours, I’ve been doing a few tourist things during my stay in Darwin, including a sunset cruise and a trip to Litchfield National Park.
On Tuesday, Kate and I went on a sunset cruise around Darwin Harbour. As there’s quite a few to choose from, I did some research, and settled on a cruise with “Sail Darwin”, on a small vessell, with lots of food, and despite the absolutely realistic promise of unlimited champagne, we kept ourselves nice. Good food. Good customer service. Relaxing and very enjoyable.
Yesterday, I went on a tour of Litchfield National Park, about ninety minutes south of Darwin. I went on a group tour with about twenty others, with “Wayoutback Australian Safaris”. The $99 round trip (about ten hours) included the bus, lunch, and tour guide, was good value. Waterfalls, termite mounts, a couple of quirky little cafe/road stops, and lots and lots of swimming. Overall, a wonderful experience.
Litchfield Park 2018Relaxing at Buley in Litchfield ParkFlorence Falls
There was a time in my life when I thought television equalisation (as it was called) for regional areas was an important issue. I’d grown up in Lismore in Northern NSW with just two television stations, and then suddenly there were three, and then suddenly there were four. And now there are many more. And then suddenly “Northern Star Holdings” (my local newspaper) became a major player in Australian television. But as I looked at my copy of the Senate Report into Television Equalisation which was in one of my cupboards, I thought, quite bluntly, “Why the f…. do I still have this?”
Having been inspired by the book “The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning”, I’m undertaking a clean-out of my life right now. The author’s advice is generally “have a moment with all of your precious items, remember why they were important, and then throw them out”. But, as I sit and remember things, and scan some of them for prosperity, I think it won’t be an overnight job. It could take some time.
Having worked as a radio presenter for a number of years, I’ve accumulated far too many books. For the most part I’ve kept books I’ve read, books which were associated with a radio interview. But many years later, I have to wonder why I still have them. Why do I still have a book about television equalisation? Why do I still have a book about the introduction of the goods and services tax?
In cleaning out my book-case, I’ve decided to keep only those books with a genuine, long-term memory for me, and those which have been signed by the author. So far, the “reject pile” is much larger than the “keep” pile. I’m “donating” the reject pile to the back laneway, and so far, the response has been positive. Really awful books, with no interest, have gone straight to the recycling bin.
In doing my clean-out, I also found this, which I’d imagine is from the late 1990s. I tried to peal off the tag to see the complete message, but it got stuck. I think it says something along the lines of “I might shag someone else tonight, but keep you up my sleeve in case, because you’re boyfriend material.”
In case the writer of this recognises their hand-writing, I’m available!
