Grim fate of middle-aged surfer revealed in barely-concealed “fiction” by celebrated surf-lit author

What happens when a surfer gets old? It's worse than you think!

Me and Rudy are standing out front of the cafe in our usual morning spot. On the pathway between the two trees. Both in our hairnets and grease-stained work polos. Looking across the industrial estate as it begins to stir. The low winter sun is just protecting us from the ice-tipped westerly hurtling down the valley. It’s second smoko. Only a couple of hours now until knock off.

This is where we come to untangle life. Amongst the forklifts, the hi-vis, the beep of reversing trucks. We talk about work, kids, husbands, the footy. Whatever. Sometimes we can’t get a word in edgeways. Other times we say not much at all.

There’s shade from the trees when it’s too hot. A couple of plastic chairs from the diner when we need them. To the north, between the aluminum wholesalers and the educational supplies building, you can see a slim finger of mountains pointing off into the distance.

I light up a cigarette.

I didn’t tell you about this one, I say to Rudy as she looks at her phone. Came home the other day after my shift and found him barbequing. At lunch time.

She turns to look at me. What do you mean?

He’s out on the verandah, with the mini Weber. Cooking up a big plate of chicken. On a Tuesday.

What’s so wrong with that?

Whaddaya mean, what’s wrong with that? I take a drag of the cigarette. Think it over.

I mean, I guess there’s nothing wrong with it. At face value. But picture it. He was there with his shirt off, his big hairy belly hanging over his Ruggers like a Christmas puddin’. And he was barbequing.

Rudy shrugs, looks back to her phone.

I said to him, I said, what are you doing?

And he looks at me with those doey eyes. That expression like he knows what I’m talking about, but he’s still gonna play dumb anyway.

What? he says. I’m just cooking up some chicken.

Now? I say. It’s lunch time. On a Tuesday. Aren’t you on the clock?

Well you know he’s been working from home for almost three years. But still.

A group of office types push past us on the narrow concrete strip. I take a step back to let them through.

I’m on a break, he says. I can do what I want.

So what happened? asks Rudy.

I take another draw of the cigarette. Breathe in deep. Hold it there, for a moment. Can feel it percolating down the bottom of my lungs. I let it out.

Well, I just ignored him. Tried to, at least. Headed towards the kitchen, to make myself a sandwich. But there’s mess everywhere. Piles of washing in the lounge room. Dirty dishes in the sink. And the smell. That smokey barbeque smell. It’s just wafting through the house. Soaking into everything.

So I go back outside. I say, you know you could at least shut the doors or the windows when you’re doing that. Keep all this smoke out.

I need to keep the door open, he says. In case I hear the work phone ring.

I say, Why don’t you bring it out with you?

He just sits there, turning the chicken slowly. It’s already burned to shit. Looks like charcoal.

Because, he says, then I’d have to set it all up out here. Plus, he says, I like to get away from work a little bit. You know, keep up the barrier.

Rudy says something like mmmm but I don’t know if she’s talking to me or her phone. The wind is picking up. I have to watch that the ciggie isn’t blowing back into the diner door. The new owners don’t like it when I do that. I wish I’d worn my jacket.

Ever since the kids left and we’ve been through the lockdowns he’s just always there, you know. A presence in the house. Heavy, like. He mopes around, half working half mucking around on that bloody men’s surfing forum. Just generally making a mess.

And I can appreciate that he likes to be at home. Better than at the pub, I suppose. Or when he used to disappear for days at a time chasing waves or whatever it was. But barbequing? At lunch? On a Tuesday? I mean come on. He’s just too… comfortable.

The diner is getting busier now. More office workers stream along the path, heading for their morning coffee. I look at my watch. 8:45. We’ll have to head back in soon. I ash the cigarette under my shoe and put it in the bin.

I turn to Rudy. Eye her up directly.

I’m the one leaving for work at three am every morning.  He just wakes up whenever he wants. Sits at his desk doing god knows what for most of the day. And barbequing. Bloody barbequing at lunch.

I stop, clear my throat. Kiss my tongue to my teeth.

I look at him and think, you’re just another thing in the house now. Something I need to navigate around. Like the furniture. Or the bills. Or the washing. He just gets to me, you know?

Rudy still doesn’t say anything. She just keeps scrolling her phone, nodding silently.

And that barbeque smell. It sticks to the walls. Creeps into the roof. Marinates. Bloats the woodwork. It’s his smell. It’s suffocating. It’s-

I feel my stomach tighten. I think I know the words I’m looking for, but I expect I’ll choke on them if they make it out.

I reach for another cigarette, but remember the time. Smoko’s almost over.

I sigh.

Some days I just wanna stay at home too. Stay at home under my blanket with the power points switched off and the curtains drawn. Let it all come to me. Just once.

I look out to the mountains. If I squint my eyes tight all I can make out is their silhouette against the light blue sky. I could be anywhere.

‘Course I never will. Like my mum always told me. Ask for nothing, expect nothing in return. It’s the only way to be.

Rudy looks up from her phone.

Mmmm. What was that, hon?

I said, I’m gonna throw that fuckin’ barbeque out when I get home.

A cloud falls over the sun and we both shiver.