It started on the ferry, somewhere between the mainland and Karragarra island. Wedged between eskies, tradie boots, day trippers and dogs, I realised the best stories out here aren’t planned, they just happen. So I started talking. Not interviews, conversations. The kind that start with “how’s your day?” and end with someone telling you exactly why they came to the islands, or why they’ll never leave.
You’ll notice I’ve only used first names. That’s intentional. First names keep it real, a little anonymous, and very island. Because these aren’t polished quotes. They’re ferry truths, shared somewhere between departure and arrival, where people tend to drop the filter.
They think we’re slow. Not the good kind of slow. Not the “soak it in” kind. Just….slow.
“Mate, I’ve done three jobs before most mainlanders hit snooze,” Darren says, leaning against the rail, coffee in hand, like he’s got nowhere else he needs to be, but everything’s already been done.
The mainland sees the ferry schedule like it’s a problem to solve. Out here, it’s just part of the day. Miss one and you don’t spiral, you sit, you talk, you wait it out. Life doesn’t fall apart because something ran late.
“We’re not behind, we’re just not in a hurry to prove anything,” Leanne says, arms folded, eyes fixed on the horizon.
They think we’re disconnected. No Uber Eats or McDonald’s, just patchy reception and power outages that roll in uninvited. From the outside, it looks like we’re living primitively.
“Disconnected? Try living next door to someone for ten years and not knowing their name,” Mick laughs.
Out here, connection isn’t digital, it’s practical. It’s knowing who has a generator when the lights go out, who’s got tools, who’ll show up without being asked.
They think we’re a bit unusual. And maybe from the outside, that’s fair enough. Life here doesn’t always follow a straight line. Homes are built not to impress anyone, just to fit the way people actually live. Nothing is overly polished and nothing quite matches the mainland blueprint. But somehow, it all works exactly as it is.
That’s not chaos, that’s choice. No one’s trying to fit here, and that’s the point.
“Where else can you just decide who you are and no one questions it?” Jules says, paint still under her fingernails, like the work never really stops.
They think we’re living the dream. Sunsets, water views, bare feet. The kind of life that looks perfect on an Instagram feed.
“Holiday? Try building anything when your materials arrive ‘sometime between Tuesday and….we’ll see,’” Rob says, letting out a laugh that turns a few heads.
Nothing’s easy and nothing’s instant. You learn patience whether you like it or not. But what the mainland really gets wrong isn’t the pace, or the quirks, or the way things work out here. It’s the idea that something is missing.
Because out here, nothing is missing. It’s just not measured the same way. Time moves sideways, conversations go longer than they should, plans fall through and something better replaces them, and people notice when you’re not around.
“It’s not for everyone, but the ones who get it don’t leave,” Kylie says, standing as the ferry begins to slow.
The engine drops back, people gather their things, conversations stop mid sentence and just like that, life continues exactly as it’s meant to.
And maybe that’s the part the mainlanders never quite get. We’re not behind, we’re not disconnected, and we’re not a version of life that needs fixing. We’re just living it differently. One ferry, one conversation, one island at a time.
