Most days, if you pass through, you’ll see two men sitting on the back of a ute tray, tucked into the shade. There’s usually a dog too - Little Dog. He’s not keen on heights, so he stays on a lead under the tray, watching feet go by. People wave, cars slow, and conversations start and finish.
Robert and Shane don’t advertise themselves as anything. They’re just there. Over time, they’ve become part of the place, a pause between groceries and the rest of life. People stop for a chat, ask a question, borrow a bit of help. Someone needs a jump start? Shane has the gear in his ute. Locked out of a car? They’ll sort it. Tyre change, directions, a dog minding moment, a kid needing watching while a parent runs inside; it all happens casually, without fuss.
“People notice when you’re around,” Robert said, “so we might as well be around for something good.”
Shane has been coming to this carpark for 51 months, right from the day he got sober. He grew up in South Tweed, is originally from the Gold Coast, and has lived on Russell Island for more than 30 years. When he stopped drinking, he volunteered to help reopen the RSL. That led to a job behind the bar, and a new chapter.
“I didn’t have a licence back then, so I used to walk everywhere,” he said. “If I saw three cars on that walk, it was a busy day and now I can sit five minutes just trying to get out of my street.”
He talks easily about how the island has changed; land prices, new builds, parking now stretching further up the mainland than it ever used to. He remembers when you could buy a block of land here for $15,000.
“We paid $13.5k for the one next door not that long ago,” he said. “It wasn’t until after COVID that everything went nuts.”
Robert’s path to the island was accidental. Originally from Sydney, he moved to Russell Island from Ipswich after coming over to meet friends of his ex. He fell in love with the place and bought a property that same weekend, two years before COVID hit.
“I didn’t plan it, it just felt right,” he said.
They met because they live around the corner from each other. The carpark became the meeting point. The meeting point became a habit. The habit became a presence.
“If we drove around trying to catch up with everyone we know, we’d be driving all week,” Robert said.
“But if we sit here, everyone comes past eventually.”
And they do. You could be anyone. People from all walks of life stop to chat; friends, new arrivals, long timers, tradies, retirees, families. Coffee appears sometimes without being asked for, already paid for by the time they reach the cafe counter. They laugh about it. They laugh about most things.
“The inconveniences are what make living here special,” Shane said, when asked about his thoughts on a bridge.
Shane tells stories of drag racing his ute on the mainland, as a sport, while Robert drinks chocolate milk and Little Dog supervises from below. They don’t ask to be noticed, and they don’t ask to be understood. They just turn up. There’s a sticker on Shane’s ute that probably says more about them than anything else:
“Some do drugs, others pop bottles. We solve our problems with wide open throttles.”
Sometimes all it takes is a wave, a hello, or stopping for five minutes in a carpark. Once you start saying hi to the people around you, something shifts. The place feels smaller, kinder, and less anonymous.
Everyone has a backstory. Most of them don’t get told. But if you slow down long enough in the IGA carpark, you might just hear a few, and realise the island’s quiet magic lives in places you weren’t looking. Or maybe places you walked past because you’d already made up your mind.
