Epilogue

September 2025

D ex holds me tight as we bounce in the boat we've chartered to take us from Malolo Island, where we're honeymooning, to Tavarua Island and Cloudbreak, Fiji's most famous wave, where the WSL Finals are being held this year.

Dex isn't holding me tight for my sake, but for his own. In the past ten months, he's made more progress than his doctors expected. He's learned to talk again, although his speech grows slower and more slurred when he's tired. Walking came easier, but he's still a little unsteady on his feet, and, sometimes, even off them.

But he's still not back to where he was before the accident. In fact, he hasn't been back on a surfboard—or even in the ocean—since then. Dex hasn't said he wants to surf again, but I catch him staring at the waves out our bedroom window at least once a day. He wants to get back out there, not just to surf, but to compete. I see it daily in his eyes, and I've felt it in his body since the minute we stepped on this boat to go to the Finals.

Dex won't be surfing in them this year, but the organizers still wanted him here. The entire surfing community has rallied around him, cheering for his recovery. And if I know Dex, he'll get there. I predict he's back to compete in the Finals this time next year.

In the meantime, I keep him balanced, whether he's walking across uneven ground or riding in a boat. He keeps me balanced by reminding me to let other people help him and by coming into Frothed to make me take breaks. And we keep each other focused on what's most important: our relationship. We're committed to not letting anything get in the way of loving each other.

Our boat hits a wave hard, and I wrap my arms tighter around Dex's waist to keep him from getting knocked over. Even a few months ago, he might have fallen off his seat, his balance was still so off from the concussion. But with daily physical and occupational therapy, Dex is getting stronger every day. He tips slightly, but catches himself and can sit upright again on his own.

I smile, tuck my chin into my windbreaker, then pull my hood tighter to block the spray coming off the dark water as the boat slices through the waves. Dex pulls me close, wrapping his arms around my shoulders so I can bury my head in his chest. His embrace isn't as tight as it used to be, but I'm grateful for the strength he's regained just in the last few weeks. The fact he can still hold me at all is a miracle.

Don't get me wrong, there have been fights when he hasn't wanted to do the work, and I've made him anyway or when I've come home tired from Frothed and not wanted to walk the boardwalk with him or help him with exercises. Communication was tough before he recovered his language skills. Sometimes it still is when he can't say something as fast as either of us wants him to or when he can't find a word he's lost.

Dex's recovery is hard for both of us. Marriage is hard—we've had to get to know each other while Dex has been relearning the most basic skills. Life has been hard.

But so, so good. And made even better by the family support we've had.

My dad, brothers, and sisters-in-law have taken turns coming to help. During the summer, when they couldn't be here, I couldn't keep Stella away. Dex's mom has stayed for weeks at a time, and his dad has even visited.

Besides family-by-blood, we've had Annie too. Everything she's learned taking care of Keesha she's been able to use with Dex, too. When I'm not there, she'll often come over to use our home gym to help both Keesha and Dex with their physical therapy. And when I need someone at the shop, she's usually available to step in, now that Keesha doesn't need round-the-clock care.

Then, there's Archie, who wouldn't let us move out of the beach house and insisted on making one room a gym with all the equipment we'd need for Dex to do most of his therapy at home. Between that and the elevator in the house that meant Dex wouldn't have to take stairs until he was ready, we couldn't say no. Archie even moved in to make sure Dex had twenty-four seven care.

He moved out last week. I didn't realize he'd planned to, but his stuff was gone one day when I came home from work. According to Dex, Archie had decided we needed our own space after witnessing too many "displays of affection."

That's probably true. I think he also finally decided I was more than just a distraction for Dex.

"Look at this, Britta." Dex loosens his hold on me and nudges me upright. The rising sun breaks through the clouds, weaving strands of orange and yellow through an aqua sky dotted with white. At the same time as the sun, the moon sinks into the ocean, but for a few beautiful moments, they hover in the sky together, holding space for each other.

There's a metaphor for marriage in there somewhere, but the only words I can think to say are, "that's a beaut, darl."

Dex laughs. "Your Australian still needs work."

"Yeah?" I dig my elbow into his side, right where he's ticklish. "Your American needs some work, too."

"Lucky for me, that's one of the easier requirements for citizenship." Dex clasps his hands together around my shoulders and squeezes tight, pressing me close to his chest.

That's the first Dex has said anything about getting American citizenship since his accident. It's been a low priority compared to the question of whether he'll ever surf again. But I suspect he hasn't given up on his Olympic dream.

I hope not. I'm not going anywhere, so citizenship shouldn't be a problem.

When we arrive at our destination, I'm surprised that the Finals this year are a completely different setup than they were at Lower Trestles last year. Dex told me Cloudbreak is a reef break, so maybe I should have expected that the wave wouldn't be close to shore. Instead of structures set up on the beach, they're on stilts in the water to be closer to the wave. Spectators are lined up in boats around the reef instead of on beach towels under umbrellas on shore.

And Cloudbreak itself is so much bigger and more powerful than the wave at Lower Trestles that, for the first time, I'm relieved Dex can't surf it. I'd be worried he'd get hurt again on a barrel wave similar to the one that took him out of competition this entire season—maybe even forever.

The boat pulls up to the WSL structure and Archie, who's already there, waves from the large opening on the second level, then comes down the stairs to meet us at the makeshift dock.

"G'day, mates!" Archie calls before hopping to the dock to help Dex out of the boat.

He grabs Dex's hand to pull him up and out, while I steady him by keeping my hands on his back. The boat rocks, and Dex sways with it, but I see his determination to look stronger than he is, in front of the surfers he's competed against for years. As he steps onto the dock, he grabs Archie's arm and holds tight for a few seconds until he's balanced. Once he's steady, Archie stretches his hand out to me.

But Dex beats him to it. I hesitate taking it until Dex raises his eyebrows and gives me a next-to-invisible nod. Then I let him pull me from the boat onto the dock. I do some of the work, but he does most of it, which sends a flutter of excitement to my belly.

Dex and I have spent a lot of time in each other's arms over the past ten months and only slightly less time with our lips pressed together, but that's it. We're still not a "married" couple beyond an official marriage certificate and our wedding pictures that are still posted on Dex's Instagram account.

At first, Dex's injury made any kind of physical intimacy out of the question. But as he got stronger, we decided it could wait until when, and if, we went on a honeymoon. And that depended on whether we wanted to stay married to each other.

Our primary focus since Dex has been able to communicate again has been on getting to know each other. Dex has prioritized that even above his own recovery, insisting that we tell each other one new thing every day. He plans weekly dates and helps me problem-solve work issues on a daily basis, and he won't let me hold back telling him when I'm upset or mad or frustrated. He's always worried that his care will require too much sacrifice on my part, and he's made sure that doesn't happen.

When Dex got hurt and I went to Hawaii, I thought I might love him. I've learned since then that what I felt was attraction. What I know now is that I absolutely love Dex and can't imagine my life without him. If he never walks completely on his own again, if he always has trouble remembering words, if his surfing days are over, I will always love Dex.

Once both Dex and I are on the dock, applause erupts from the other surfers, officials, and judges in the WSL stands with us, but also the spectators crowded into the dozens of boats anchored around the reef.

Dex looks around, confused, until Archie nudges him. "That's for you, mate. Give ‘em a wave."

Dex glances at me. I grab his wrist and raise both of our arms over our heads. He won't be able to keep it up long by himself, so he clutches my hand and waves with his other hand. As the applause grows, tears form in his eyes.

They fall down his cheeks when a commentator—Luiza Florence—holds a mic near Dex's face and a cameraman moves in close with his equipment. I let go of Dex's hand to step out of the way, but he pulls me back.

I try not to fidget while Luiza asks Dex questions. Being on camera has never been my dream, especially after a windy boat ride and my hair still tucked into my hood. I'm so nervous about how I look and what I should do with my hands that I barely hear when Luiza asks, "What do you attribute your amazing recovery to?"

Dex clears his throat and wipes the back of his hand under his nose before answering, "Britta." His voice cracks. "My wife. That's it. I wouldn't be here without her."

The interview ends with both of us in tears. Then we spend the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon watching five men compete for the World Title of surfing. Dex won't be the champion anymore. His win will go down in history, but that event may have been his last. We both know it. We've talked about it, but the day is still more emotional than we expected.

We stay long enough to see Jack Robinson take the title and boost the trophy over his head, same as Dex did last year, then we climb on our boat to head back to our resort. We could have stayed in a closer hotel, but when I insisted we come to the Finals—despite the very long flight over the ocean—Dex agreed only if we could make the trip our honeymoon.

I said yes.

That's when we both knew this wasn't a marriage-of-convenience anymore. Ours was a marriage-for-forever, inconveniences and all.

So, when we get back to our private hut on the sand, we barely get the door closed before Dex is walking me backwards toward the bed while I peel his shirt over his head. When the back of my knees hit the mattress, we stop long enough for him to ask if I'm sure.

"More than sure." I rise on my tiptoes and find his mouth with my own.

With my arms around his neck and my lips still on his, Dex lifts me onto the bed. I lay back, taking in all of him before he kisses me again.

"Happy anniversary," he whispers between the kisses that find their way from my mouth to the tip of my earlobe.

"Our anniversary isn't for another two weeks." My breath catches as Dex's lips trace a path down my neck to my collarbone.

"Do you want to wait until then to celebrate?" His kisses don't stop.

"No." I shake my head. "I want to celebrate every day until then, then every day after."

Dex stops long enough to flash a dimpled grin. "Ripper plan, Mrs. Thomsen-Dexter."

Then, for the first time—but definitely not the last—Dex and I really share a bed.

Thanks so much for reading Britta & the Beach Boy!