Suta

I’m sitting here staring at my screensaver. A black-and-white photograph of a surfer. Boxers instead of swim trunks, surfboard under his arm, six-pack out. He’s walking towards me, looking out at the ocean.

To this day, probably my favourite photograph I’ve ever taken. Or did my sister take it?

Either way, I want to tell you the story about the guy in the picture.

I was 18. My sister had convinced me to spend a month in Bali with her after my high school graduation. It sounded like a good idea, especially because I knew all I had to do was pay for it.

She is type A to a T, and I’m most definitely not. Unless it comes to organised spaces. Then I suddenly become very type A. But that’s a story for another day.

She planned everything. I just had to show up. Bliss.

And so we found ourselves in Bali, staying at a boujee version of a surf camp. I’d never experienced anything remotely like it. I’d never travelled that far, especially without a ‘real adult’.

And what a time it was.

My sister had signed us up for surf lessons. It sounds so cliché, but there truly is no feeling like riding a wave. You feel light, free and so happy. It was probably the most fun I’d had in a long time, especially with the stress of senior year finally lifting off my shoulders.

Soon, the local surf guides started joining our camp parties. Long nights, loud music, everyone taking turns playing songs from their iPods through the AUX cable. There was plenty of flirting among the group. Nothing particularly serious. Just innocent fun, laughter and a good time.

And there was one guy I got along with especially well.

We joked around. He helped us with our surfing, watching footage and giving us advice. We listened to music, one earbud in his ear, the other in mine. We convinced a group of people to get up at 6 a.m. to go surfing at a beach farther away. We took long walks along the beach behind the surf camp. Sat next to each other.

Nothing ever happened between us, but I really enjoyed his company. There was an indescribable trust that had developed so quickly.

I often asked him about his life, but he kept his answers short and smiled. I didn’t want to pry, although I always wondered why he wouldn’t share more.

I remember him telling me I should stay longer and come back soon. From what I’d seen at our dinners and Friday night camp parties, I’m sure I wasn’t the only guest hearing this from one of the surf guides.

Leaving hit me harder than I expected. I knew I wouldn’t be able to come back for at least nine months, but I was already looking forward to it. Even then, I knew this experience would be hard to top.

The day before we left, he finally told me something I wasn’t prepared for.

I’d heard rumours that he was married and had a child. I’d even asked him about it once, but he’d shrugged it off, so I let it go.

I remembered the camp owners telling the guides to stay away from the guests. I’d heard of similar situations happening before, and I assumed they didn’t want anything to spoil the guests’ experiences. But everyone got along so well that the rules had been largely ignored from day one.

Then he told me.

I wanted to tell you, he said, looking down at his chest. I have a wife. And kids.

I stared at him, my jaw practically on the floor.

What? Why didn’t you tell me earlier? I asked about it.

He still couldn’t look me in the eye.

I know. I couldn’t. I like you so much, K. I’m sorry.

Nothing had happened between us, but it still felt like a betrayal. I couldn’t quite explain why.

I hadn’t felt disappointment like that many times before. I was heartbroken, and I didn’t entirely understand my own reaction.

But it was time to leave.

On the long flight home, I couldn’t shake the feeling that part of me had stayed behind. Or at least wanted to.

And then life continued.

We messaged here and there over the years. Every time, he asked me to come back. And every time, I said I would.

I meant it. But life got busy, and somehow ten years passed without me returning.

I regret that now. Because eventually, it was too late.

It was a late August summer day. I’d had one of the most exciting years of my life up to that point. The restrictions after the pandemic were slowly lifting, and I’d been travelling near and far.

That day, I was back where I grew up. I opened Facebook for the first time in years.

And there it was.

A picture of his obituary.

Tears sprang to my eyes. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I couldn’t sit still. I’m not much of a crier, which made my reaction all the more overwhelming.

I messaged a few people I still knew from Bali, people who had been close to him. For a moment, I even considered flying there. I just felt like I needed to be there.

One of his closest friends kept me updated about the funeral and everything happening there. He sent me pictures and videos, and I was incredibly grateful to be included from so far away.

Over the following days, he kept checking in with me. At one point, he wrote:

Please don’t think too much of Suta anymore. He’s duty in this world already done. I believe he find the best place in other planet now.

Something about his words comforted me. I respected the way he understood Suta’s passing, and I’ve remembered what he wrote ever since.

I grieved from afar.

We had spent a month together, kept in touch over the years, and somehow he had become someone I felt I knew better than people I’d known my whole life.

He wasn’t perfect. I knew that, but it never changed how much I cared about him.

I still have that photograph as my screensaver. In fact, I deliberately chose it for my new computer. I look at it almost every day.

I wish I could just fly there tomorrow and spend time with him.

I still can’t fathom that I won’t see him again in this lifetime.