When the Tide Turned
Dreams by the sea, promises broken, and the cost of walking away
After selling Café Mediterraneo at a loss, I was restless. Against my better judgment, I sold our Paddington apartment — a decision I regret to this day. Sheila was upset, and I wasn’t thinking clearly. We had lined up a rental in New Farm, but the day before we were due to move in, the deal fell through. With nowhere else to go, we ended up at Bali Hai in Jindalee, the only place we could find on such short notice.
Around that time, I bought a small catering business called The Diet Place. Sheila and I worked on it for nearly a year before selling it to Continental Agencies in 1999. That sale opened the next chapter. Continental had just secured a contract with Woolworths to manufacture fresh pizzas for every store in Queensland, and they asked me to set up their production line.
The first order was 700 pizzas. Soon after, we were producing more than 20,000 a week. I thrived on the challenge, and the staff became a well-trained, capable team. By 2001, when Continental purchased Ronda Foods, I negotiated a better package and stepped into the role of Production Manager. I developed their HACCP manual, earned Halal certification for the factory, and kept operations running smoothly.
But the merry-go-round of ownership took its toll. In 2003, Continental sold Ronda. I was kept on, but I lost my fuel card and felt increasingly unsupported by the new owners. Six months later, Ronda was sold again — this time to a couple who at first seemed promising. We launched new products together, but the constant instability weighed heavily. Meanwhile, Continental sold the Woolworths pizza business — along with the computer program I had designed for production. All those hours, all that effort, and I received nothing.
Amid this upheaval, Sheila had been exploring different parts of Brisbane. One day, she persuaded me to visit Redcliffe, a quiet seaside town about forty kilometres from the city. To my surprise, I loved it — no high-rises, just a few new apartments and a slower pace. We found one on Marine Parade at Baywatch, and I came up with a plan. I would give my daughter and her husband a sum of money as a deposit. They already owned their home, and this would be an investment property for them. We would rent it from them, giving them tax benefits while giving us a home by the sea.
At the time, they were consulting a financial adviser, and I suggested they discuss the arrangement with them. After meetings and consideration, it was agreed, and we moved in just before Christmas 2000.
Redcliffe brought a sense of peace. I became secretary of the body corporate and enjoyed morning coffees with neighbours. For me, it felt like a community. For Sheila, however, it was much the same as always. She avoided neighbours, kept to herself, and retreated into her world. I had seen this before, but here it felt sharper, as if the distance between us was slowly growing.
Then came the blow.
At Easter 2005, my daughter and her husband announced they would be selling the apartment — despite years of assuring me they never would. I offered to pay more rent and begged them to reconsider, but it was no use. I was devastated. Redcliffe had become my anchor, and now it was slipping away.
At the same time, I had booked leave from Ronda Foods — my first proper holiday in years. A visitor from the UK had been staying with us, and when I mentioned my trip, they kindly offered accommodation. Sheila had no interest in joining me; she never did. Her only remark about the sale of Baywatch was blunt:
“We just have to move back to Brisbane.”
That was the moment it hit me.
For decades, every move and every compromise had been made for her comfort, her needs. I still loved her dearly and longed for laughter, connection, and companionship — a meal out, a show, a glass of wine together. Instead, I felt alone in my marriage, even when we sat in the same room.
The stress of work, the loss of Redcliffe, and the silence at home pressed down on me. Depression circled like a shadow. After I returned from my holiday, a small confrontation with a colleague at Ronda spiralled into a breaking point. Within days, I had handed in my notice.
And that was it. Years of trying to build, rebuild, and hold everything together came undone.
Reflection
It has been twenty years since, and it still haunts me.
When I left, I was so distraught — overwhelmed by work pressure, the loss of Redcliffe, and the silence at home — that running felt like the only option I could see. In the middle of that despair, I opened up to Karen, Sheila’s niece, when she visited us. In her final days in Australia, I told her what was happening to me, how I was feeling, and even about my upcoming leave from Ronda in September.
Looking back now, I see that it wasn’t love I was reaching for, but escape. I was blind to Sheila’s quiet strength and to the truth that she had stood by me through so many moves and hardships. In trying to ease my pain, I broke the very bond that had held me for so long, leaving her to carry a silence I should have shared.
If there is one truth I’ve learned since, it is this: time doesn’t erase regret, but it can soften it into understanding. I write this now not as an excuse, but as a kind of apology — one she will likely never read, but one I needed to make all the same. If I honour her now, it is by finally naming what I failed to see then — her loyalty, her endurance, and the love I mistook for absence.
This reflection is not meant to reopen old wounds, only to acknowledge them truthfully.
This is where I leave it — not resolved, not forgotten, but understood at last.
Around that time, I bought a small catering business called The Diet Place. Sheila and I worked on it for nearly a year before selling it to Continental Agencies in 1999. That sale opened the next chapter. Continental had just secured a contract with Woolworths to manufacture fresh pizzas for every store in Queensland, and they asked me to set up their production line.
The first order was 700 pizzas. Soon after, we were producing more than 20,000 a week. I thrived on the challenge, and the staff became a well-trained, capable team. By 2001, when Continental purchased Ronda Foods, I negotiated a better package and stepped into the role of Production Manager. I developed their HACCP manual, earned Halal certification for the factory, and kept operations running smoothly.
But the merry-go-round of ownership took its toll. In 2003, Continental sold Ronda. I was kept on, but I lost my fuel card and felt increasingly unsupported by the new owners. Six months later, Ronda was sold again — this time to a couple who at first seemed promising. We launched new products together, but the constant instability weighed heavily. Meanwhile, Continental sold the Woolworths pizza business — along with the computer program I had designed for production. All those hours, all that effort, and I received nothing.
Amid this upheaval, Sheila had been exploring different parts of Brisbane. One day, she persuaded me to visit Redcliffe, a quiet seaside town about forty kilometres from the city. To my surprise, I loved it — no high-rises, just a few new apartments and a slower pace. We found one on Marine Parade at Baywatch, and I came up with a plan. I would give my daughter and her husband a sum of money as a deposit. They already owned their home, and this would be an investment property for them. We would rent it from them, giving them tax benefits while giving us a home by the sea.
At the time, they were consulting a financial adviser, and I suggested they discuss the arrangement with them. After meetings and consideration, it was agreed, and we moved in just before Christmas 2000.
Redcliffe brought a sense of peace. I became secretary of the body corporate and enjoyed morning coffees with neighbours. For me, it felt like a community. For Sheila, however, it was much the same as always. She avoided neighbours, kept to herself, and retreated into her world. I had seen this before, but here it felt sharper, as if the distance between us was slowly growing.
Then came the blow.
At Easter 2005, my daughter and her husband announced they would be selling the apartment — despite years of assuring me they never would. I offered to pay more rent and begged them to reconsider, but it was no use. I was devastated. Redcliffe had become my anchor, and now it was slipping away.
At the same time, I had booked leave from Ronda Foods — my first proper holiday in years. A visitor from the UK had been staying with us, and when I mentioned my trip, they kindly offered accommodation. Sheila had no interest in joining me; she never did. Her only remark about the sale of Baywatch was blunt:
“We just have to move back to Brisbane.”
That was the moment it hit me.
For decades, every move and every compromise had been made for her comfort, her needs. I still loved her dearly and longed for laughter, connection, and companionship — a meal out, a show, a glass of wine together. Instead, I felt alone in my marriage, even when we sat in the same room.
The stress of work, the loss of Redcliffe, and the silence at home pressed down on me. Depression circled like a shadow. After I returned from my holiday, a small confrontation with a colleague at Ronda spiralled into a breaking point. Within days, I had handed in my notice.
And that was it. Years of trying to build, rebuild, and hold everything together came undone.
Reflection
It has been twenty years since, and it still haunts me.
When I left, I was so distraught — overwhelmed by work pressure, the loss of Redcliffe, and the silence at home — that running felt like the only option I could see. In the middle of that despair, I opened up to Karen, Sheila’s niece, when she visited us. In her final days in Australia, I told her what was happening to me, how I was feeling, and even about my upcoming leave from Ronda in September.
Looking back now, I see that it wasn’t love I was reaching for, but escape. I was blind to Sheila’s quiet strength and to the truth that she had stood by me through so many moves and hardships. In trying to ease my pain, I broke the very bond that had held me for so long, leaving her to carry a silence I should have shared.
If there is one truth I’ve learned since, it is this: time doesn’t erase regret, but it can soften it into understanding. I write this now not as an excuse, but as a kind of apology — one she will likely never read, but one I needed to make all the same. If I honour her now, it is by finally naming what I failed to see then — her loyalty, her endurance, and the love I mistook for absence.
This reflection is not meant to reopen old wounds, only to acknowledge them truthfully.
This is where I leave it — not resolved, not forgotten, but understood at last.