Doing My Bit Chapter 9 - Sandbar Golf Club

DOING MY BIT

Chapter 9 – Sandbar Golf Club

Sandbar Golf Club sits nestled next to Celito Beach in sight of the small town of Smiths Lake just north of Seal Rocks on the mid coast of New South Wales. A few years ago the management of the owners of the land, the Paspaly Group who own the caravan parks in which the course is situated sought to create a Club bourne out of a regular Wednesday afternoon get together.

For me, I stepped in, asked by a friend to sit in on the inaugural meeting of the Club, to ensure things were being “done right” in terms of legislation, and that is where it started. Since that fateful day I have been the Honorary Secretary/Treasuer of the Club. Presidents have come and gone but I am left to hold it all together from an administrative point of view.

Most Wednesdays I start early, early enough that the world has not yet decided what it will be today, and in that hesitation there is space to think, though thinking has a way of leading to places that are not always comfortable.

It was never meant to be this, yet that is almost always the case when something begins with good intent. The numbers sit there, not as a set of accounts but as a narrative that has slowly written itself in the margins of other people’s expectations. Five dollars from each round once felt symbolic, almost ceremonial, a quiet acknowledgment that something should be set aside for the future. Now it sits as the backbone of something more substantial, an accumulation that has gathered weight over time. On its own it is modest, barely worth a second glance, but in aggregate it carries enough substance to reshape the edges of a course that had once been left to weather and goodwill.

There is a memory of when the idea first surfaced, not as a proposal that demanded attention but as a correction offered almost casually, as if it were self-evident. What existed could not continue as it had been, not if it was expected to last. There was no grand vision attached to it, no declaration of intent, only a quiet recognition that something needed to sit beneath the surface if it was to hold. Not control, not ownership, but structure. The distinction is subtle in language but absolute in consequence, the difference between something that drifts and something that endures.

At the time, the conversations carried possibility rather than resistance. There was a shared understanding, even if it remained largely unspoken, that this was about building something that could outlast the hands currently holding it. The course had always felt as though it belonged to everyone and no one at once, caught awkwardly between the commercial intent of its owners and the emotional investment of those who walked it week after week. That tension was not new, but it had never been properly addressed. The introduction of structure did not remove it, but it gave it a framework within which it could be managed.

The instinct to step in was not driven by analysis so much as recognition. There was a gap, and it seemed reasonable to fill it. The logic felt simple, almost borrowed from somewhere else, the idea that if something needed doing, then doing it was its own justification. It is a seductive line of thinking because it carries no immediate cost. The early stages demand little beyond attention, and attention is a currency that can be spent without much thought when reserves feel plentiful.

The caritas gauge, though not consciously named at the time, begins its quiet work in the background. There is no alarm, no clear indication that a line is being approached. Instead, there is a gradual recalibration of what feels normal. Time that would once have been guarded begins to open without resistance. Energy that had been allocated elsewhere is redirected with little consideration for what might be displaced in the process. It shows itself in small decisions, the extra call taken, the additional email sent, the willingness to attend one more meeting, to stay a little longer, to smooth over something that might otherwise have been left unresolved.

Out on the course, the results are visible in ways that numbers alone cannot convey. The ground still holds the dampness of the previous night, the air carrying that familiar mix of salt and grass that sits somewhere between fresh and worn. There is satisfaction in seeing the changes take hold, in knowing that the lines cut into the earth are deliberate rather than accidental. Table drains edged cleanly, fairways that hold their shape rather than surrender to it, a course that reflects intention rather than neglect. The benefit is tangible, something that can be walked, experienced, pointed to as evidence that the effort has not been misplaced.

That is the good, the part that justifies the decision in the early stages and continues to do so long after the initial enthusiasm has settled into routine. It is the knowledge that something better exists because of the intervention, that what was once drifting now has direction. There is comfort in the idea of sustainability, in the belief that a system can be created that will continue without constant input. It suggests an end point, a place where the effort invested begins to pay its own way.

But theory has a way of diverging from practice at the exact moment when it matters most. The first signs are subtle, almost imperceptible, and easy to dismiss if there is a desire to maintain the original narrative. A comment made in passing about what should be provided, a question that carries expectation rather than curiosity, a shift in language that moves from appreciation to assumption. It is not malicious, and that makes it harder to confront. It is simply the natural progression of a system that works. When something becomes reliable, it becomes expected, and once it is expected, it is no longer seen as a gift.

The caritas gauge adjusts again, this time with enough force to be noticed. There is a slight resistance where there had once been flow, a hesitation that did not previously exist. The question begins to form, not loudly, not in a way that demands immediate attention, but persistently enough that it cannot be ignored. The distinction between giving and obligation becomes less clear, and with that comes a subtle but significant shift in how the role is experienced.

A meeting sits at the centre of that shift, heavier than the others not because of what is said but because of what sits beneath it. The room is familiar, the faces unchanged, yet the tone carries a different weight. Discussion circles around fees, access, and what should be provided, but the real issue lies deeper. On one side sits the commercial reality that cannot be ignored, the costs associated with land, maintenance, and liability that exist whether they are acknowledged or not. On the other sits a sense of ownership that has nothing to do with legal title, a belief that contribution over time creates a form of entitlement that should be recognised.

The numbers brought into that space are accurate, as they always are. They tell a story of viability, of what is required to ensure that the course does not slip back into the state it once occupied. They are clear, logical, difficult to dispute on their own terms. Yet numbers have limitations, particularly when they intersect with emotion. They can reveal truth, but they do not guarantee acceptance. The role of Secretary/Treasurer was never intended to carry this kind of weight, yet it finds its way there regardless, expanding beyond administration into something closer to mediation.

The instinct in those moments is to soften, to present the information in a way that minimises friction, to find a path that allows everyone to leave feeling as though their position has been acknowledged. There is a discipline in that approach, one that has been developed over years of similar conversations in different contexts. Yet there is also a risk, a point at which explanation becomes justification and justification begins to erode the very structure it is intended to support. Holding that line requires a clarity that is not always comfortable, particularly when the easier path is to give a little more and resolve the tension in the short term.

The presence of the boys sits quietly in the background, not as a specific memory but as an influence on how those decisions are made. It is not the outcome that matters in that context but the process, the willingness to stand in a space where agreement is not guaranteed and where the cost of maintaining a boundary is immediate and tangible. The question of what is being modelled becomes relevant, not in a way that demands attention but in a way that shapes it.

The meeting ends without resolution, which is often the way these things conclude when the underlying issues are not easily reconciled. There is an agreement to revisit, to consider, to think further, language that allows for an exit without a definitive outcome. Outside, the course has come to life, the sounds of play carrying across the space in fragments. There is laughter, the sharp strike of a well-hit ball, the softer acknowledgment of one that is not, all of it unfolding on a surface that now reflects intention rather than neglect.

There is pride in that, a recognition that something of value has been created. The system works, the structure holds, and there is a pathway that allows it to continue beyond the involvement of any one individual. That is the benefit, the part that validates the decision to step in and contribute in the first place.

Yet it is not the whole story, because in building something that works, something has also been created that demands ongoing attention. A system that generates its own expectations, a presence that, once relied upon, is not easily withdrawn without consequence. It is not destructive, but it is demanding, consuming time, energy, and attention in ways that were not fully anticipated at the outset. Stepping back is no longer a simple act but one that carries implications for what has been built.

There is an awareness of what sits ahead, not as a certainty but as a possibility that cannot be ignored. The tension between community and commerce has not been resolved; it has been managed. There is a risk that over time it will harden, that positions will become more fixed, that goodwill will erode under the pressure of competing expectations. What was once a shared space has the potential to become a point of contention, not through any single decision but through a series of small shifts that accumulate over time.

The caritas gauge sits somewhere in the middle, no longer silent, no longer easily ignored. There is enough capacity to continue, but not without cost, and the awareness of that cost changes the nature of the decision moving forward. The ledger remains open, not as a record of what has been done but as a question of what comes next. The numbers can show what is required to keep the course running, they can map out a path that is financially viable, but they cannot determine where the line sits between contribution and depletion.

That line exists outside the ledger, shaped by factors that resist quantification. Time given here is time taken from somewhere else, and the division of presence across too many demands begins to thin it in ways that are not immediately visible but are deeply felt. The silence that follows the stopping of the mower creates a space that feels almost deliberate, a moment where the absence of noise allows the underlying question to come into focus.

The structure works, that much is clear, but I built it as I wanted. The question that remains is whether it can continue to be held in the same way without eroding something that cannot be easily replaced. What was built to create sustainability has, in its success, begun to assume a permanence that was never promised. The fairways are cut, the drains hold, the competition runs, and somewhere in that consistency a quiet expectation has taken root that this is simply how it is, how it will always be, without regard to the hands that make it so.

The tension sits there, not in the numbers but in the rhythm of it all. Cars arrive, clubs are lifted, conversations resume as though the space prepares itself. The invisible work remains just that, unseen, and in being unseen it becomes assumed. There is no malice in it, only a gradual shift from gratitude to entitlement, from participation to consumption. It is the natural consequence of something that functions well, and yet it carries a weight that was never part of the original equation.

The question, then, is no longer about whether the system can sustain the course. It clearly can. The question is whether the system has created a dependency that now resists its own independence. Stepping back is not simply an act of withdrawal; it risks being interpreted as abandonment, as though the removal of one piece threatens the whole. That is the paradox of building something effective, that in removing yourself you expose whether it was ever truly sustainable or merely sustained.

There is a responsibility in that realisation, but it is no longer a simple one. Responsibility to the community sits alongside responsibility to self, and the two are not always aligned. The instinct is to continue, to carry the load a little longer, to ensure that nothing falters. Yet there is a quiet understanding that this instinct, left unchecked, becomes the very thing that prevents others from stepping in. The presence that once enabled growth now risks stifling it.

So the question sharpens, no longer abstract but immediate and uncomfortably precise. How do you remove yourself from something you helped shape, knowing that its very reliability has allowed others to arrive each week with the expectation that everything will be ready, that the responsibility sits elsewhere, that the game simply exists for them to play?

And beneath that, the more difficult layer remains, the one that resists easy answers. How do you step away without allowing what has been built to unravel, while also recognising that holding on may be the very thing that ensures it never learns to stand without you?

If not this way, then how, when the act of giving has quietly trained others not to give at all?