Which is fine.Of course it’s fine. It’s just... different, that’s all.
My phone pings, saving me from the world’s saddest pity party. For about three seconds.
Douglas
Mate, disaster. Rosie’s just projectile vomited all over the living room. My folks were meant to be watching the twins tonight but I can’t risk them getting whatever this is. Sorry. Rain check?
A flicker of disappointment hits—daft, considering it’s only a pint—but I brush it off and shoot him a message back.
Struan
No worries. Hope she feels better soon and you and Logan avoid it
Douglas
Cheers. Though Logan’s already complaining that his tummy hurts so not looking likely...
Poor bastard. Douglas’s situation is almost the complete opposite of mine. While Sophie and I have found a decent rhythm, Douglas is basically raising the twins solo. Their mum, Leah, pops back every few months, plays happy families for a week or two, then buggers off again. No warning, no explanation. Just gone. The twins are too young to understand why she comes and goes, and Douglas is left picking up the pieces every time.
The man’s knackered, but at least he gets those wee moments every day—bedtime hugs, morning chaos, all that stuff.
Not that I’m complaining. Nah, my setup’s grand.
Mostly.
Christ, if anyone could hear the monologue in my head tonight, they’d be laughing their arses off. I’m meant to be Mr Laid-Back, not... whatever this is.
I glance around the pub. The table nearest the window has a family of five, the youngest maybe Lily’s age. She’s carefully colouring on the paper place mat while her siblings squabble about something. At another table a grandfather is helping a wee boy cut up his fish while the grandmother wipes ketchup off a girl’s chin.
Christ, this place is crawling with kids tonight. Not exactly the vibe I’m after.
I drain my pint and eye the specials board. Slow-cooked lamb shank. Pan-seared sea bass. Venison burger. All sound good, but the thought of sitting here by myself, surrounded by families while I eat dinner alone...
No. Not tonight.
Through the window, I see the sky is still bright enough—September evenings holding onto their light. The waves are decent. Not huge, but enough to get the blood pumping. And the wind’s dropped since this afternoon.
Only one thing for it, then.
I stand and head for the door. A ten-minute drive, and then I can be out on the water.
“Heading off already, Struan?” Alan calls from behind the bar.
“Aye,” I say with a grin. “Waves are calling. Be rude not to.”
“At this time? You’re mental.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been called that.”
I push through the door and into the evening air.
Sometimes the only way to clear your head is to throw yourself at something that demands every bit of your attention. And the Atlantic? That definitely qualifies.
The sun’s sliding towards the horizon by the time I reach the cove, painting the sea bronze and copper. I love this quiet sandy stretch. Here it’s just me and the Atlantic having it out.
The first duck dive shocks the air from my lungs, September water cold enough to make my teeth ache. Salt stings my eyes, my hands numb for a moment before the burn kicks in. But that’s what I need, something sharp enough to cut through all the noise in my head.
I reach the break, and by the third wave, my body remembers what to do. Paddle, pop up, ride. The surfboard hums beneath my feet; spray hits my shins. My shoulders burn, forearms screaming, but it’s the good kind of pain. The kind that reminds you you’re alive.
