Early the next morning I was aboard a U.S. Navy supply ship heading up the Malacca Strait. There were 8 journalists on board - writers, a BBC tv reporter and cameramen, and 3 photographers. It was a 2 day trip up to the USS Essex, and with little else to do on board, I photographed the crew preparing supplies which would be transferred when we arrived. With only experience of ferries to go on I'd feared getting horribly seasick - but was holding up okay, and excited about what we'd find when we got to the Navy ships.

We transferred to the Essex by helicopter. I quickly learned to use the word "helo" - pronounced "heelow" - as no one seemed to understand me when I said "chopper". The supply ship had been crewed by ex-navy "civilian mariners", but I'd been warned that things would be "different" on the real Navy ship. And they were.

If there's one thing this experience has given me it is an indelible association between US Navy ships and disinfectant. Where the supply ship had been pretty crusty, the interiors of the Essex were sparkling clean - floors, walls, celings, everything - spotless. Every time I descended a set of stairs or a ladder (of which there were many) and my nose reached the same level as the deck, I'd get a heady whiff of disinfectant. A few days ago I visited the lavatories in a Singapore shopping centre and the smell took me right back to the Essex - I guess they were both using the same floor cleaner!

On the Essex and later on the Harpers Ferry, we were always "escorted" by either Navy or Marine media liasons. Although we were "free to move about the ship," the reality was slightly different. This was good in some ways - on occasions when I managed to evade my escorts, I got lost in the labyrinth of corridors and hallways on each deck and it took me forever to find my way. Hunt-for-Red-October lighting at night and a flashlight strapped to my head, I'd wander around in circles.

Then there was the food. The man from the Wall Street Journal got lost and asked a passing Marine for the "mess hall" to which he got the barked response, "YOU MEAN THE CHOW HALL!!!" before being politely escorted to the right place on the right deck.

The "chow hall" resembled a high school cafetaria, complete  with cliques of cool and not-so-cool kids (I was later told that majority of the crew of the Essex and some 90% of the crew on the Harpers Ferry were under 21). You had to be quick when you got in line - there were dozens of hungry sailors and marines behind you, and neither they nor the chow hall folks had time for a sense of humour. If you didn't know what you wanted, you got either dirty looks or something you really didn't want. I became good at barking out my meal preferences in seconds: "Meatlof! Potatoes! Gravy!" It was true American cooking - and at meal times you could just smell your way to the chow hall.  I had to reset my body clock  to the ship's meal times - breakfast at 6am, lunch at 11am and dinner at 4.30pm.

My first time in line as I got to the top of the queue, I took a plate from the stack but seeing that the cook already had a plate for me, was about to return mine to the stack when the Marine behind me behind me muttered, "You touch it, You take it!", so I spent the next 20 minutes pretending it was perfectly normal to be carrying two plates about. 

The bunks were cramped - 4 to a tiny room, shared showers with everyone else staying in "officers county". Our Marine escorts remarked on how luxurious this was. They were living in "trees" the next deck down, 3-stacks of bunks on either side of a two-foot corridor. I wondered how sailors and marines manage it - at sea for months at a time, no privacy and no space, on a metal hulk rocking in the waves.

Trying to tell the story of the aftermath of the cyclone from the Essex was limiting - there was only so much I could do without making landfall. We photographed the navy preparing drinking water for delivery, helicopters shackled to the decks not going anywhere, and resupply trips between ships. You could feel the frustration among the crew - everyone I talked to spoke of feeling helpless, even angry, that here was a ship loaded with clean water, food and shelter only 50 nautical miles from the disaster area, yet the stubborness of the Myanmar junta was preventing its use. 

The Navy had been prepared to let media on board in the event of an aid mission, but when it became clear that just wasn't going to happen, we were transferred back to the crusty supply ship for the slow 2 and a half day trip back to Singapore.

On the return journey there was none of the anticipation of the journey out. Most of us felt frustrated being stuck on a ship with nothing to do and no story to tell. We resigned ourselves to the trip and found ways to keep ourselves busy. What do journalists do on a slow boat back to Singapore? They play the American version of Trivial Pursuit against one another, they play ping pong against the crew, they count down the hours until the next chow time, they read books while trying not to look at the clock too often.

The hardest thing of all was once back on terra firma, trying to drop off in a stationary bed, with no rocking of the boat or groan of the engines to lull you asleep.

The group numbered 14; all of us Reuters journalists, including text correspondents, video producers and photographers. There were five of us from Pictures - Seoul staffer Jo Yong-Hak, Chief Photographer Japan Mike Caronna, Amit Guptafrom Jammu in Indian-administered Kashmir, Pichi Chuang from Taipei and Victor Frailefrom Hong Kong. The level of experience in the group varied wildly, from highly experienced correspondents, producers and photographers, to neophytes like me. 

On the first day of the course, our instructors introduced themselves - they were both ex-Australian SAS personnel, with a wealth of experience of operating in dangerous places including East Timor, Iraq and Afghanistan.

One of the most valuable things I took away with me was the First aid. They promised us at the beginning that by the end we would remember every step. I'd learned first aid at school but had forgotten almost everything about it and never had reason to practice it. Before first aid instruction began, we were asked a blunt question, "I can do something to save each of you, but what can you do to help me?"  It made me feel irresponsible forgetting how to provide help in a medical emergency. This was valuable stuff which everyone needs not just in the field but domestically with colleagues, friends and family.

Over the next few days it was information we would have to apply again and again as we tackled the many scenarios and sure enough, by the end, we were able to remember every step of the process irrespective of how complicated it had seemed on the first day. Practical training began with a demonstration on a dummy and over the next couple of days we practiced CPR techniques on each other.

There were numerous practical exercises. In one, we were herded into a hotel room, where the instructors pointed out security flaws and dangers. Some of us were selected at random and blindfolded, the rest of us watching to make sure they don't injure themselves as they attempted to find the fire exits while not being able to see anything. It's scary how few people "made it" - lesson learned: situational awareness, always know where you are, the surroundings and how to get out quickly if you need to.

In another, we walked around the sprawling hotel compound with GPS units, calling in our positions to two journalists regularly who plotted our positions on Google Earth. Lesson learned: communication, call out the numbers in single digits, else you might confuse the person at the other end and he or she may plot 50 instead of 15, and put you somewhere else - a serious error if your safety depends on the information getting out.

In yet another, we were exploring the grounds when we came upon a vehicle accident, injured people in the vehicle and others flung into the surrounding undergrowth.  Lesson learned: know your first aid procedures to keep people alive until help arrives - always make sure you've checked the area thoroughly lest you overlook someone injured in the bushes.

For our final and for me most frightening scenario, we were asked to assemble in the hotel lobby one evening. We were split into groups and we sat nervously in a lounge, waiting for a simulated phone call from an unreliable fixer who was going to take us to interview a reclusive southern Thai rebel leader. The phone call came and our group went downstairs to meet this "fixer". We tried to follow everything we'd been told about letting people know of your movements and security precautions - but its surprising how much of that changes in the heat of the moment. Even though you know this is a simulated scenario, the adrenalin is pumping, things are moving very, very fast, and although you try to apply everything you've learned, some things change with the situation. The "fixer" drove us down a dark alley behind the hotel where we're suddenly ambushed by masked people carrying what look like AK47 rifles, shouting at us and pounding the car with their rifles and fists. My heart was pounding and I began to panic. As our "fixer" disappears in the chaos and opens the doors, we're dragged out of the vehicle, taken a few steps away and pushed to the ground - phones, gps units, wallets, passports, everything - taken off us. As we knelt in the dirt we learned that the rebel leader we were to have met had been injured in an explosion and we were expected to help - a gun-toting rebel told us, "he die, you die." Inside a disused building there are injured people covered in blood and moaning in pain lying on the ground,with  glass and shrapnel everywhere. Time to apply, as best you can, everything you've been taught. Lessons learned: Don't ever talk back to your captors unless you want to be thwacked, follow instructions, don't try to escape, and try not to freak out or look scared as you attempt to remember what you're supposed to do in this situation. 

The lessons and scenarios taught us about correct bandaging techniques in case of snake bites, fractures, shrapnel and chest wounds; what to do in case of a vehicle accident - one of the most common ways in which journalists are injured. We were taught about correct procedures for travelling in a convoy, how to read and give GPS coordinates, how to select a hotel room least exposed to dangers such as explosions, flying shrapnel and stray bullets (it's frightening to be told how far a bullet can silently travel - and how little armour will do for you), how to backtrack out of a minefield and even what you can do to ease your way if you are a journalist embedded with a military unit.

I learned about simple gadgets that can really improve security; for example, $20 door stops that emit a loud alarm if someone tries to break into you room. I learned how to put together a basic med kit; what to keep in a "go-bag" in case I need to move suddenly, and most importantly, how to assess every situation for potential safety threats, letting colleagues you trust know what you're doing every step of the way.

Everything was backed up by long conversations with much more experienced colleagues, who shared stories from their years on the job. Amit, our photographer from Jammu, was able to tell us first hand about several life-threatening situations he had been in, and how he prepared himself for them and made sure he got out safely. Video producer Madhu Soman from Mumbai and Vietnam Bureau chief Grant McCool also brought with them a wealth of experience which they were able to share in their stories of covering conflict, bomb scares, floods and barely making it through hostile checkpoints.

From my more experienced colleagues, I learnt that situations out there in the real wild world will never be as controlled as the scenarios we were presented with in Bangkok - a really scary thought - but that what we'd been taught here would give us a reference point, something to being with and some basic steps to follow that would help us operate more safely under oppressive conditions. After our final scenario, I also hoped never to be exposed to a situation in which I'd be at the mercy of trigger-happy militants as we had been in the simulation - that it's better to be safe and not get into something like that in the first place.

All of us learned to look for things we'd never have considered before going on the course, and while some of what was taught might have seemed common sense, the course helped place safety and security right at the front of our minds.

It brought home just how much difference preparation and training can make to anyone working in an unsafe environment. Getting the story and covering it effectively is one thing but we need to do that without jeopardising our safety or that of our colleagues, eliminate completely unnecessary risks always thinking ahead to the next step and the way out. 

Don't let anyone fool you into thinking that the job is either easy or for that matter glamorous. They say Melbourne is lovely in summer; however acquaintance with the city is limited to a brief glimpse on the day before the tournament starts as the schedule rapidly become so hectic that there is no time for anything but tennis pictures. I collect my accreditation and make for the Rod Laver arena with the team - all people who have covered the Australian Open in the past. Our makeshift office is a glorified shipping container underneath the stands at centre court, with a bit of grey carpet on the floor and fluorescent strip lighting to make it feel more homely. A TV in the corner will help us monitor action on several courts and keep us updated with scores and results. This is where we live and breathe tennis for 15 days.

My job requires me to do several things: caption and ftp pictures to the Singapore global desk as the editor sends them to me, run disks for photographers scattered over a gazillion courts, and sometimes shoot a little too. Sounds easy enough, but the first week is really tough. The work is gruelling, with days lasting up to 18 hours on minimal sleep.

Our days usually start with a team breakfast at a café by the Yarra River. We talk about pictures and the day's plan, chit chat with each other and have a look through the day's newspapers - keeping an eye out for our own pictures, which had the distinction of beating local photographers to the front pages on more than one occasion. Coffee is crucial - cups of coffee were sent back if they weren't good enough, and we even switched cafes on the strength and quality of the coffee on offer. After several strong cups, we walk together towards our office at the stadium. It's a nice walk along the river, and in about 15 minutes we arrive and settle in for the day. Laptops are booted up, gear is unpacked and prepared, testers are sent to the Singapore desk. Anyone shooting outside applies plenty of sunscreen to try and prevent sunburn - after 15 days the healthy tan that everyone developed was quite noticeable.

With so many matches on at the same time I find myself moving upwards of 200 pictures a day, running to far-flung courts and back to grab disks and running to the outer courts to shoot pictures. Things are complicated by the fact that to get anywhere, I have to negotiate a rabbit warren of corridors and alleys in the bowels of the tennis centre. Despite Pedja giving me a guided tour of the venue on day one, it takes me nearly 4 days and countless wrong turns to understand where all the courts are and how to get to them. The mini-map provided on the back of the accreditation pass is near useless and not to scale, so I take to making my own marks on it to get around. I can't enter a court whenever I want; photographers are only allowed to move in and out of courts during breaks in between certain games. As a runner, it means if I don't bolt to a court fast enough I miss the "window" and get stuck for another 2 games, wasting crucial time and worse still, annoying Pedja and photographers who have been sitting on court for hours, slowly dehydrating in the sun. You wouldn't believe the number of times I narrowly missed a window, only to be stuck outside a court on which tennis players insist on returning from advantage to deuce enough times to have me turning my hair prematurely grey. By the time I wait for a break to grab a disk, lose my way again and return to the "bunker", Pedja has already queued up a bunch of pictures for me to caption and move to Singapore.

Come 5 pm, people from the media centre bring two cases of beer and stack them into mini-fridges. Soon after that, two trays of food arrive - they vary from day to day - sandwiches, wraps, chicken nuggets, little mini pies and sausage rolls. Photographers descend on the offerings like vultures and the food disappears in a matter of minutes. Pedja and I eat what we can quickly and try to nab a few extra pieces for the guys who are still on court. We then collect and store bottles of beer to be had later - a daily ritual most of us couldn't survive the Open without.

Things start to settle down in week two, but even though there are fewer matches, our picture flow hasn't decreased since we can now put more than one photographer on each match to cover multiple angles. Come the quarter-finals, semi-finals and finals, everyone is starting to tire of the relentless long days, but our focus remains on producing the best pictures from the Open and this keep us working pretty hard despite the fatigue.

Things start getting easier as I get more familiar with the venue and more used to the rhythms of tennis. Tim and Pedja come up with a game plan: who shoots from where, when disks are going to be run and by whom. Steve becomes our expert on the roof of centre court; Tim and Darren have positions opposite the umpire; Stuart shoots from the concourse level for a little while before moving down to the umpire's side, replacing Pedja who heads back to the bunker to edit everyone's take.

By the finals, I'm able to manage all my tasks without feeling completely stressed - go up to the councourse level to shoot the first 5 games from a different angle; run down to pick up disks from Tim and Darren after the 7th game; make my way back to the bunker shortly after, where Pedja has also returned from shooting and grabbing Stuart's disks on his way out. Steve starts dropping his pictures to us from a laptop he's taken with him to the roof. We load everything up and settle into editing and processing, and still have time to go back out for the final 3 or so games of the match to ensure match point is covered from multiple angles. After match point, Pedja returns to the bunker with more disks from himself, Stuart and Darren. I run from the concourse level down to the courtside. Tim has left his disks for me in a bag and moved to another position to shoot trophy pictures. I join Pedja in the bunker and for the next hour, our heads our buried in our screens as we try to move the key pictures as fast as possible.

So, a word of warning to processors traveling to sports events: They're tough work. There's a lot to do, a lot of legwork, and you have to do it all very quickly. But it's a lot of fun when you're with a great team and the adrenalin will help you through. Oh, and leave your gps at home and bring a notebook and pencil instead, you'll need it when you get lost underneath the stadium!