After successfully selling First Choice Power to one of our competitors in 2011, I knew that I’d get one more opportunity to push the flywheel of hope and purpose for the teammates that I’d led for several years before moving on. On October 31, I held my final Monday morning sales meeting and prayed for the best words to share.  

I knew the acquisition, the uncertainty, and the end of this chapter would be painful for many. We had built something special together, and it was right to grieve its ending. But I also challenged the team, and myself, not to let that grief turn into anger, rumors, assumptions, or ugliness. Those behaviors were not what built our culture, and they were not how we should finish.

Each person in the room faced different paths for the future. Some would stay. Some would leave by choice. Others would lose their jobs through no decision of their own. We could not control the outcomes, but we could control the attitude and excellence by which we played each day.

I reflected on the lessons we had learned through the many book clubs and late-night culture debates. Bitterness would only make the next chapter harder. On the other hand, a positive and professional response would likely lead to unexpected opportunities that could change the trajectory of someone’s career. I had experienced that in my own life. Some of my greatest moments of professional growth came because of transitions that had initially felt like setbacks.

My final challenge was simple: keep doing your best until your last day. The work still mattered. Our customers still mattered. Our relationships still mattered. We still had a responsibility to support one another, reject rumors, and finish well.

Whether someone stayed with the new company or moved on, I wanted each person to walk out with their head held high.

The message I hoped to leave was this: honor what we built, refuse to let fear destroy it, and step into the next chapter with integrity, personal responsibility, and care for the people around you. But I didn’t want the final words to be my own, so I concluded by reading the final chapter of a book our team loved studying together called It’s Your Ship, slightly paraphrased below.

The tour was over. It was time for a new captain. A few weeks before the date, my commodore asked me what time I wanted to come aboard as a guest speaker. Sorry, I said, you aren't invited.

Just between me, my relief, my crew, and my ship. No one else is coming. In fact, instead of

changing command at port and forcing the crew to do a lot of needless preparation, I decided to turn over my ship at sea. The Commodore was pretty used to me by now. He came right back. What do you want me to do with your medals? Would you mind putting them in the mail, sir?

Thursday morning, we got up and trained for four hours because training was our job. Then we assembled on the flight deck in our coveralls. Then I gave the shortest change of command speech in military history. It was five words long.

I know how you feel.

Then I excluded my relief from my crew. The new and improved Benfold was now theirs. As I departed, I thought about how far we had come in two years. Once divided and troubled, the ship I left to my successor was all a captain could wish for, the gem of the ocean.

I was hugely proud of these sailors who had become such a tight, accomplished, effective team, and I was unabashedly proud of myself. I had come far as both a leader and a person. I will never forget the excitement of watching it improve every single day. I can't imagine a more rewarding job, and I would have done it with no pay. If I ever match it again, I will be the luckiest man alive to have had such an experience.

People often ask why I didn't stay in the Navy, and the answer is, I could have stayed. The Benfold was a huge success, and I got the best evaluations of my life. The path was clear. I could have gone on to make Admiral. The problem was that the Navy's business is

going to sea. In my first 18 years in the Navy, I spent three full years sailing around the Persian Gulf. All told, I acquired more sea time than any of my contemporaries from the Naval Academy.

To stay on and go for Admiral would have required more. Three more six-month deployments, probably in a three-year time span. Sea duty was rewarding, but it also took a personal toll. In the end, I decided that as much as I loved the Navy and the people who worked for me and my colleagues, it was time for me to move on. Now I want to share my experience and my journey to help others become better leaders.

The day before I was released, my successor took me inside and said he felt almost intimidated. Benfold was unlike anything in his experience. He did not want to be known as the one who, on his watch, Benfold had declined. He asked me what he should do.

He said he'd been raised by some real pit bulls since he joined the Navy, guys who truly believed in saluting those above and sweating those below. And here he was being thrown into a strange-knit situation where strict Navy tradition had been turned upside down. What should he do? Where should he begin?

I summarized the Benfold playbook, my recipe for running this phenomenal crew and ship. I tried not to sound like Moses, but my commandments were no less heartfelt. They were simply the chapter heading for this book, made by example.

• Listen aggressively.
• Communicate purpose and meaning
• Create a climate of trust
• Look for results, not salutes
• Take calculated risks
• Go beyond standard procedure
• Build up your people
• Generate unity
• And improve your people's quality of life