Doing My Bit Chapter 3 - Being Prepared - A Scouting Experience

DOING MY BIT

Chapter 3 – Being Prepared – A Scouting Experience

Before Rotary, there was a foray into Scouting.

My ex-wife was too smart by half, and the move carried a precision that I could recognise even as I resisted it. Wednesday nights had been defined, not by presence, but by voice, a thin line of connection stretched across distance and circumstance, fragile but consistent. It was not ideal, but it was something. A touchpoint that said, however quietly, that I was still there.

That line was removed without confrontation, replaced by something that, on the surface, appeared constructive. The boys were enrolled in Scouts. A wholesome activity, structured, supervised, full of the kind of values that no one could reasonably object to. It was a decision that could be defended in any forum, framed as beneficial, even admirable. There was no argument to be made against it that would not sound self-serving or petty.

But the timing was not accidental.

Wednesday nights, previously mine in voice if not in presence, were now occupied. The phone call no longer fit. The space had been filled, and in doing so, something else had been quietly displaced. It was not an aggressive act. It did not need to be. It was effective precisely because it did not appear to be one.

What sat beneath it was more complicated. Left unchallenged, it had the potential to shift the relationship in a way that would not be immediately visible but would become evident over time. The boys would adapt, as children do, to the structure that surrounded them. The absence of that midweek contact would be normalised. The voice that had been a regular presence would become occasional, then optional, then perhaps unnecessary.

That was the risk. It was not dramatic. It did not announce itself. It simply sat there, waiting to see whether it would be allowed to take hold.

The decision to step into that space was not framed as a strategy at the time, but looking back, it is difficult to see it as anything else. If Wednesday nights were no longer available in the way they had been, then they needed to be reclaimed in a different form. Presence would replace voice. Proximity would replace distance. The line that had been cut would be redrawn, not by argument, but by action.

Joining Scouts was not about Scouting. It was about refusing to allow a shift in circumstance to become a shift in relationship. It was about maintaining a place in their week that could not be quietly reassigned. It was about ensuring that, whatever else changed, there remained a consistent point of contact that carried more weight than a phone call ever could.

There was, perhaps, a level of irony in it. An act that was designed to limit access became the very mechanism through which access was expanded. What could have been a slow erosion instead became a reinforcement, though not without cost.

Because once inside, the role did not remain passive.

The hall smells the same each Wednesday night, and it arrives before anything else has a chance to settle. It sits in the air as a quiet constant, a mixture of varnished timber, old canvas, and something harder to define, something that belongs to repetition and memory rather than any one moment. It is the kind of smell that does not ask to be noticed, but once recognised, cannot be ignored. It reminds me, before a single word is spoken, that this place has seen countless versions of the same evening, played out with different faces but identical intention.

And now, it carries mine as well.

The door opens with that familiar resistance, and for a brief moment the hall feels contained, almost orderly. Chairs are stacked against the wall, ropes are coiled neatly, and the whiteboard still holds the faded remnants of last week’s activity. In that stillness, there is a suggestion that the night might unfold in a measured way, that effort might be predictable, that the commitment might align with the neat promise it was originally sold as. Ninety minutes a week, nothing more than that, a simple exchange of time that would deliver something meaningful in return.

That thought does not survive contact with reality.

The voices arrive first, echoing down the corridor with an energy that cannot be moderated, and then the boys follow, filling the space with movement, noise, and the kind of unpredictable rhythm that resists structure. Uniforms are worn in a way that reflects the homes they come from, some precise, others approximate, each telling its own story without saying a word. The name comes quickly, almost before I have fully stepped into the room, and it lands with a familiarity that has long since replaced any sense of novelty.

“Baloo.”

It is not a role that was ever consciously chosen, yet it has become one that fits more easily than expected. It softens interactions, creates a space where approachability is assumed, and invites a level of patience that is not always instinctive but has been developed over time. The response comes automatically, greeting them as a group while already beginning the quiet process of observing individuals, noting who is present in body and who has arrived carrying something else with them.

Among the movement and noise, there are familiar anchors, and a glance across the room is enough to find the children, both boys and girls. They no longer require the same proximity, no longer seek out constant reassurance, yet there is still a connection that runs quietly beneath everything else. It is expressed in small looks, in brief acknowledgements that confirm presence without demanding attention, and it is in those moments that the original reason for being here continues to hold its ground.

The routine begins as it always does, with flags and promises that establish a framework, even if the adherence to that framework varies from one moment to the next. There is a gathering rather than a command, a subtle drawing together of bodies and attention, until the noise settles just enough to allow something more deliberate to take its place. The Australian flag is raised, and in that simple act there is a quiet shift from chaos to ceremony. Three fingers come up in salute, an awkward gesture at first for some, overly serious for others, but over time it finds its own level, somewhere between mimicry and meaning.

“DYB, DYB, DYB.”

The call is uneven, voices colliding, some louder than others, some barely committed, yet it carries across the group with a rhythm that does not rely on precision to be effective.

“DOB, DOB, DOB.”

The response follows, a little more confident, as though repetition itself creates certainty. Do Your Best. Do Our Best. Words that, on paper, risk sounding like slogans, too neat, too simple to carry any real weight. Yet in this space, delivered in this way, they land differently. Not as doctrine, but as intention. Not as expectation, but as permission.

The three fingers held in the air begin to take on a shape of their own over time. They represent the promise, the law, the idea that there are things worth holding onto even when the world outside feels less structured. To help other people. To do your duty. To keep yourself strong and awake to what matters. The language is simple, almost childlike, but the undercurrent is anything but. It asks for something that is not easily measured, and in doing so, it mirrors a part of life that rarely finds its way into ledgers or reports.

Standing there, repeating words that are not originally mine, there is an unexpected resonance. It does not come all at once, and it is not accompanied by any grand realisation. It builds slowly, through repetition, through observation, through the recognition that these small acts of ceremony create a shared understanding that sits beneath the noise. The boys may not fully grasp the meaning, not yet, but they feel the structure of it, the sense that there is something consistent being offered, something they can rely on even as everything else shifts around them.

For me, it begins to settle in a different way. The words are no longer just part of the program, something to be delivered and moved past. They start to reflect back, quietly, asking for alignment between what is said and what is done. Do your best. Do our best. The distinction matters. One is individual, contained, and manageable. The other extends outward, implicating the group, the community, the unseen network of people who rely on each other without necessarily acknowledging it.

It is in that extension that the willingness to give back finds its footing.

Not as an obligation imposed from above, and not as a performance designed to be recognised, but as something that emerges from standing in that space and realising that presence itself carries a responsibility. The salute, the words, the act of showing up each week, they begin to form a quiet contract, not written down, not enforced, but felt. It suggests that if something is worth being part of, it is also worth contributing to, and that contribution is not always convenient, nor is it always finite.

The ceremony ends as simply as it begins, the fingers drop, the flag remains, and the noise returns with almost immediate force. The cubs move back into games and activity, the structure dissolving into something more fluid, yet the imprint of that moment lingers. It is not obvious, and it is not always visible in behaviour, but it exists nonetheless, shaping the way the night unfolds in ways that are difficult to articulate but impossible to dismiss.

And standing within it, repeating words that were once just part of the routine, there is a growing awareness that this is not just about them learning what it means to do their best. It is about understanding what it costs to keep showing up and offering something of yourself to a group that will take what it needs without always knowing what it is receiving.

Within that rhythm, small incidents unfold with a frequency that would feel disruptive in any other environment but are simply part of the fabric here. A boy stumbles during a game, and the reaction spreads quickly, not because the injury is serious, but because the moment carries the potential to escalate. It is handled with a calm that has been learned rather than assumed, a deliberate lowering of the pace that prevents the situation from becoming something larger. A quick assessment, a reassurance, and a return to activity bring the group back into balance, but the moment leaves a trace.

These are the moments that begin to draw on something deeper than time or attention. They tap into a reserve that is not formally acknowledged, a measure that rises and falls without being explicitly tracked. The closest word for it is caritas, though even that feels like an approximation rather than a definition. It is the capacity to give care, patience, and presence without immediate return, and it is often treated as though it exists without limit.

The night continues to unfold, and the demands shift rather than diminish. Knots are tied and retied, with one cub mastering the process and becoming, for a brief period, the focal point for others. The sense of achievement that comes from something so simple is disproportionate to the task itself, yet entirely appropriate within the context. A fire is lit outside, and the smell of smoke begins to weave its way back into the hall, adding another layer to the already familiar scent that defines the space.

The tone changes as the cubs gather around the fire, and the noise gives way to something more focused. Stories replace instructions, and attention is drawn inward by the simple act of watching flames move. It is in these moments that the role shifts from directing to holding, from managing to being present, and it requires a different kind of energy. This is not about control or structure, but about creating a space where the moment can exist without interference.

Even within that shift, another layer remains, pressing quietly but persistently. The clipboard on the table waits as a reminder that the night does not end when the boys leave, and that the structure surrounding the activity carries its own expectations. Attendance must be recorded, reports must be completed, and the administrative framework demands a level of compliance that feels both familiar and misplaced in this environment.

The pen moves across the page, filling in names and columns, and for a moment, the language of numbers reasserts itself. It brings with it a sense of order that sits comfortably within long-established habits, yet it does not reduce the complexity of what is happening around it. The chaos has not been resolved, only translated into a different form, one that can be documented but not fully understood.

Beyond the Wednesday nights, the commitment extends in ways that were never clearly defined at the outset. For me, the drive from Windsor to Meadowbank becomes a routine that carries its own weight, measured not just in kilometres but in time that is carved out of an already full life, time that does not announce its absence elsewhere but is felt in the compression of everything that surrounds it. Monthly meetings add another layer, and weekend camps expand the role into spaces where unpredictability becomes the defining characteristic, where the neat edges of a ninety-minute commitment dissolve into something far more fluid.

What shifts the balance, though, is not simply the addition of tasks, but the removal of a person.

The head leader retires without ceremony, at least not one that reflects the quiet accumulation of what he had been carrying. There is no dramatic handover, no structured transition that neatly redistributes responsibility. What remains is a space, and like most spaces in organisations that rely on goodwill rather than obligation, it does not stay empty for long. It fills, not through formal appointment, but through proximity and familiarity, through the simple fact of being there and being seen to be capable.

Picking up the pieces is not a single act. It is a series of small acceptances that, taken individually, feel manageable, even reasonable. Someone needs to organise the program for the next term. Someone needs to liaise with parents, to answer questions that extend beyond the night itself. Someone needs to ensure compliance with requirements that sit well outside the visible activity, the risk assessments, the reporting, the quiet administration that underpins everything but is rarely acknowledged. Each task presents itself as temporary, as something to be managed until a more permanent solution is found.

The permanent solution never arrives.

What had been a role defined by presence becomes one defined by responsibility. Planning replaces participation. The time spent in the hall is now only a fraction of the total investment, with preparation happening before and reconciliation happening after. The boys still see Baloo, still interact with the same figure that moves between games and stories, but behind that, there is a different layer forming, one that carries the weight of ensuring that the environment exists at all.

The additional activities accumulate without announcing themselves as a burden. Badge work must be tracked, progress recorded, and achievements acknowledged in a way that maintains engagement without diluting meaning. Camps require organisation that extends beyond the romantic notion of tents and fires, into logistics, permissions, safety protocols, and contingency planning for events that are hoped to be unlikely but must be anticipated nonetheless. District involvement begins to creep in, not as an ambition, but as an extension of being present at the wrong time, or perhaps the right time, depending on perspective.

Acting roles emerge, titles that suggest a temporality but carry expectations that are anything but temporary. Acting District Leader for Cubs becomes another line added to the list, another set of meetings, another layer of responsibility that sits above the immediate group and begins to pull attention outward. The scope broadens, the network expands, and with it, the demands increase in ways that are not immediately visible but are consistently felt.

There is a quiet assumption that this is what happens when someone appears to be willing. Capability becomes currency, and once demonstrated, it is drawn upon repeatedly. The absence of others stepping forward reinforces the pattern, not through any explicit decision, but through the simple mathematics of need and availability. If something must be done, and there is someone who can do it, then it becomes that person’s responsibility by default.

The original motivation, grounded in presence with my boys, begins to sit alongside something else, something less clearly defined but equally persistent. The act of giving back moves from an abstract concept to a lived reality, shaped not by grand gestures but by the accumulation of small, consistent contributions. It is not framed as a sacrifice, and it does not feel like one in the moment. It is simply what is required to keep the structure intact.

Yet within that, the boundaries that might have once existed begin to blur. Time that was allocated becomes time that is absorbed. The distinction between participation and obligation becomes less clear, and the question of how much is enough is replaced by a more pressing reality, that the need does not diminish simply because capacity is reached.

And so the role expands, not through intention, but through necessity, until the original shape of it is barely recognisable beneath the layers that have been added in the absence of anyone else willing to take them on.

One such weekend brings a moment that shifts the tone entirely, when a boy running beneath a hut misjudges the clearance and meets a joist with a force that transforms a game into an emergency. The response is immediate, shaped by training that compresses thought into action. The wound is significant, and while the presence of his parents might suggest a shared responsibility, the momentum of the situation leads to a single point of control.

Stabilising the injury, organising transport, navigating a boat ride out of the camp, and driving through Galston Gorge to Hornsby Hospital all occur within a framework that prioritises calm over panic. The external presentation remains steady, even as the internal response works to keep pace with the unfolding reality. The transfer to emergency staff brings a release, though not an immediate one, and the tension finds a new place to settle rather than disappearing entirely.

The boy is treated and returned, with instructions to monitor for any changes that might indicate something more serious. Back at the camp, the environment resumes its usual unpredictability, and the idea of quiet observation becomes almost impossible to maintain. The incident becomes part of the broader narrative, another example of the responsibility that sits beneath the surface of what appears to be a simple activity.

There are other moments that reinforce this understanding, such as the day in a shopping centre when an epileptic episode unfolds in front of the group. The response is once again calm, not because the situation is familiar, but because the reaction must be controlled to prevent escalation. The boys look not to the environment, but to the adult among them, and the example set in that moment shapes their response more effectively than any instruction could.

These experiences contribute to a sense of purpose that justifies the continuation of the role, even as the cost begins to accumulate. There is value in the time spent with the boys, both those who are mine and those who are not, and there is a satisfaction that comes from observing their growth over time. The connections formed extend beyond the immediate context, with some maintaining contact years later, still using the name that defined that period of their lives.

There are also unexpected outcomes, such as meeting my second wife during a Palaver weekend, an event that was never intended to serve that purpose but did so nonetheless. These moments add a layer of meaning that reinforces the decision to remain involved, even as the original motivation begins to blur with new ones.

The cost, however, does not diminish simply because the benefits are clear. It builds gradually, through the expansion of time commitments, the assumption of responsibilities that others have stepped away from, and the erosion of boundaries that were never explicitly defined. What began as a way to reclaim time with my boys becomes something broader, shaped by the absence of others willing to step forward and the quiet expectation that I will continue to do so.

The end does not arrive as a conscious decision, but through a process that reflects the structure surrounding the organisation. An incident is misread, a perception forms that does not align with intent, and a complaint is made. The response from the hierarchy follows established protocols, prioritising process over context, and leaving little room for the nuance that defines the situation from within.

The resignation that follows is less a choice than an inevitability, shaped by a system that does not allow for the kind of understanding that might have altered the outcome. There is no conversation that acknowledges the accumulation of effort, no opportunity to reconcile the intent with the perception. The exit is clean in procedural terms, but carries a residue that does not dissipate as easily.

What remains is the question that sits beneath the entire experience, one that cannot be answered through process or documentation. The initial decision to step into the role was driven by a desire to be present, to create space within a constrained arrangement that limited time with my boys. It was also influenced by an opportunity to contribute, to fill a gap that would otherwise remain unaddressed.

The benefits are tangible, found in the relationships formed, the growth observed, and the unexpected paths that emerged from the experience. There is, though, a layer within that benefit that sits closer to home, less visible to anyone else but more significant than all the rest combined. It reveals itself not in grand gestures, but in the accumulation of moments where presence becomes proof, where consistency becomes a language that does not require translation.

There had always been another path available, one that would have been easier to justify in the short term. The Wednesday nights could have been allowed to slip, first through circumstance and then through habit, until the absence of contact became normal rather than noticeable. It would not have required an argument, nor a decision that could be clearly pointed to as a turning point. It would have been a quiet drift, supported by the structure that had been put in place, where distance is managed rather than challenged.

Choosing not to take that path does not present itself as a single defining moment. It is a series of small decisions that align in one direction rather than another, each one reinforcing the last until a pattern is established. Turning up, week after week, not as an observer but as someone who has stepped fully into the space, creates something that cannot be replicated through intermittent contact. It establishes a presence that is seen, not just by my boys, but by the environment around them, and in that visibility, regardless of the turmoil surrounding my life, there is a message that does not need to be spoken.

They see it in ways that are not always immediately obvious. It is there in the glance across the room that confirms I am still there, in the casual reference that assumes my involvement rather than questions it, in the absence of any need to explain where I am or why. It becomes part of the structure of their week, something that is as reliable as the routine itself, and in that reliability, there is a quiet reinforcement of connection.

What is being demonstrated is not framed as a sacrifice, nor is it presented as a deliberate act of defiance against the circumstances that made it necessary. It simply becomes normal. That normality carries its own weight, because it removes the sense that effort is being made for effect, and replaces it with the understanding that this is just what is done. Presence is not negotiated; it is assumed.

Over time, that assumption begins to shape the relationship in a way that is difficult to quantify but impossible to ignore. It builds a foundation that is not reliant on explanation or reinforcement, because it has been experienced rather than described. The boys do not need to be told that they matter within the context of my life, because they can see the evidence of it in the choices that have been made, in the time that has been allocated, in the consistency that has been maintained.

There is a subtle shift that occurs when that level of presence is sustained. The relationship moves beyond the constraints that were originally imposed on it and begins to define itself on its own terms. It is no longer shaped solely by agreements or schedules, but by the lived reality of shared experience. The hall, the camps, the routines, all become part of a shared narrative that exists independently of the circumstances that brought it into being.

That narrative carries forward, even as the immediate environment changes. As the boys grow and move on to different stages, the memory of that consistency remains, not as a point of reference to be revisited, but as an embedded understanding of what it means to show up. It does not guarantee anything in the future, but it creates a baseline that informs how the relationship is perceived and experienced.

The alternative, the quiet drift that was always available, would have created a different baseline altogether. It would have been defined by absence rather than presence, by adaptation rather than reinforcement, and while it may have been easier in the moment, it would have carried a cost that would only become apparent over time.

That cost was avoided, not through a single decision, but through the accumulation of choices that consistently favoured presence over convenience. It is within that accumulation that the true benefit sits, not as something that can be easily measured, but as something that fundamentally alters the trajectory of the relationship in a way that cannot be undone..

Caritas, as a measure, was never consciously managed, and the assumption that it would remain available without limit proved to be flawed. The line between giving and depleting shifted gradually, unnoticed until it was no longer possible to ignore.

The question that remains is not whether the experience was worthwhile, but whether the balance between giving and preserving can ever be maintained without deliberate intervention. If the need presents itself again, as it inevitably will in some form, the decision to engage will carry with it an awareness that was not present at the beginning.

And in that awareness lies the tension that will shape what comes next, because the challenge is not in recognising the need, but in determining how much of oneself can be given without losing sight of the point where care becomes cost.