We all think about it. Quitting the nine to five, packing up the essentials, jetting off to some sun-drenched island to chase waves, purpose, remote work and freedom, I guess. Here’s my experience of doing exactly that; a raw, unfiltered take on island fever.

Indonesia is a place where the currency of waves tracks high and chaos runs rampant. I recently made Bali my Indo base for a year and a half of my life; a time span that seems at once remarkably long and somehow short – a sort of fever dream that has come to an end. I think it’s standard to assume life is better in the Indonesian archipelago, on most days your hardest decision is determining which beach to park up at and what board to ride – not exactly what most would deem stressful.

I found myself falling in love with that drifting feeling in the season of 2022. Every single surfer in the universe was dipping in and out of Uluwatu. The hypertension in the air was palpable, the parties were hard. I had never found a group of people I resonated with more, or who could drink me under the table at any given opportunity.

Within the space of 10 days I’d decided I’d found home, I was gripping tight to the feeling of that dazed season with both hands. I didn’t have a plan, I had a journalism degree and hope, in all honesty. I think a bit of naivety helped, the addition of ignorant bliss and some rose-tinted glasses pushed it across the line.

The rapidity at which things fell into place for me in Indonesia could only be attributed to a miracle, or sheer luck. I poured my all into writing from my laptop, building a portfolio of work that …