The coast of Tasmania doesn’t care where you came from. It just opens up—wild, wind-lashed, and utterly indifferent. I parked the camper by a cliff’s edge one afternoon, unsure if I’d stay one night or three. I stayed four.

Each morning I woke to the sound of the ocean testing the shoreline. Mornings were fog-wrapped and quiet. Evenings came on soft and slow, like a tide that didn’t know whether to rise or stay. I cooked with whatever I had. Slept with the windows cracked. Let the wind be my companion.

There’s a kind of clarity that only comes from solitude and sea air. I didn’t write much. I didn’t need to. The days were filled with the kind of small moments that don’t make it into postcards—lighting a match with cold fingers, watching sea birds fly in formation, rinsing dishes in a cold creek.

Camping out there didn’t feel like an escape. It felt like a return. To something quieter, rougher, more real.