Baby Boomers are living longer. How do they make the most of their time?

As Bette Davis once famously said, “Old age isn’t for sissies.” But as we Baby Boomers increasingly defy the biblical cut-off point of three score and 10, and stagger, jog, stride or limp into our 70s and 80s, deciding how to make the most of it is the big question.

As Bette Davis once famously said, “Old age isn’t for sissies.” Credit: Stocksy

The average life expectancy in Australia is now 85 for women and 81 for men, which means getting it right matters. Happily, choices in the 21st century stretch far beyond my grandmother’s generation, when one child (almost always a daughter) was expected to put aside her hopes and dreams to stay home to look after the oldies until they were buried.

My mother, with whom I had a combative, sometimes incendiary relationship, wisely opted for a retirement village that was close enough for Sunday visits but far enough away for us to maintain a civilised equilibrium. She died on the brink of 96, disappointed I’m sure, that she failed to reach her goal of 100: she often mentioned she would never be ready to die.

My own retirement and recent drift into my eighth decade, has been wildly off the beaten track. As if living in a boat access-only community wasn’t challenging enough, my husband Bob decided to take up farming. He is currently building Angus cattle bloodlines into what he hopes will one day be a great breeding herd. He figures it will take 30 years, which will put him close to the age of 110. He is undaunted by that figure.

But if old age isn’t for sissies, neither is farming. In the past 10 years, we have survived a three-year drought, been surrounded by bushfires – saved only by a change in wind direction – cut off by floods, seen our calves hunted and killed by wild dogs, survived a couple of tractor accidents (two broken discs), spent a fortune on vet bills to save our dogs after snake bites (Bob said it would be cheaper if I was bitten next time) and, all in all, had a recklessly demanding but life-affirming time.

“We can’t keep this up forever,” I told Bob one night, despondent after some critter had rampaged through our vegetable crop once again. Not to mention the silvereye birds that ate all the strawberries. Bizarrely, during this mayhem, for me, the once onerous labour of writing became respite.

Sitting in front of the fire (which heats our hot water, as we live entirely off-grid except for one gas bottle every six months) one winter’s night, I raised the issue of “what next?” once again.

“A retirement village?” Bob wickedly suggested. “The entrance age ranges from 65 to 70. We’re too old,” I replied.

I recalled the way we used to joke about the five residents in our little offshore enclave, pooling resources in the hazy future to hire a young couple as caretakers and carers. “To lug the beer and wine,” we laughed. We were in our blithe 50s then, and certain we’d be clever enough to side-step the frailties of age. What a shock the first time a body part refused to respond to orders. Or seized without permission.

We used to joke about the five residents in our little offshore enclave, pooling resources in the hazy future to hire a young couple as caretakers.

SUSAN DUNCAN

But out of that memory, an idea for a new book began to germinate, and when I heard about four couples who’d combined resources to purpose-build a house where they could communally, but independently, live their dream for old age, I trotted off to find out if the system worked and, if so, how.

Turns out, the plan is not nearly as simple as it sounds, and it’s a good idea to give the concept a decent trial to suss out whether the benefits outweigh the flaws – practical and personal – before committing hard-earned equity. The blueprint is set down in the pages of my book Sleepless in Stringybark Bay, although I must stress that the devilish plot is my own.

The truth is, for people like Bob and me to thrive, there must always be challenges and goals, although I’m not sure reaching the age of 110 is realistic. The trick is to reduce boundaries. Bob has not learned this. He still climbs in a raised tractor bucket to fix bird netting over the orchard or to clean our preposterously high windows. I trust him to know when to call it quits, to accept the fine balance between finding inspiration and over-reaching. I have also told him I am not interested in being a widow. I understand, too, that to try to stop him would begin a slow slide into the escalating helplessness that so often conjoins with over-protecting the elderly.

The other critical factor is good health. Twenty-three years after wrestling breast cancer, I found myself back under the knife. I was lucky. Early stages and no ongoing treatment. And I have achieved a life-long ambition to be flat-chested. Of course, the love of a good man takes the sting out of what my mother once so charmingly referred to as mutilation.

As for what next? Well, where else would we choose to finish our lives but back where we met on the shores of Sydney’s Pittwater, where the community is family but without the hassles, where there are daily challenges to keep us occupied and engaged, where the ancient escarpment is a reminder that we are not even a speck of sand in the time frame of the universe.

Pittwater offers more than enough to keep us humble and grateful that we are upright and breathing and able to celebrate even the smallest achievements at the end of each brand-new day.

Sleepless in Stringybark Bay (Allen & Unwin) by Susan Duncan is out now.

Make the most of your health, relationships, fitness and nutrition with our Live Well newsletter. Get it in your inbox every Monday.