Not Quite Local

You Might Not Be a Local, But You’re Definitely an Islander

There’s a saying out here on the edge of the world: ‘you’re not a local unless your great-grandmother was born behind a shearing shed during a nor’easter.’….

Or something like that.

The truth is, “local” is a title not handed out lightly. It’s earned. Sometimes over decades. Sometimes not at all.

But there’s a beautiful in between - a feeling stitched together from community events, salt spray, and the daily nod at the post office. You might not be a local, but you’re definitely an Islander.

You know you’ve crossed the line when you stop using Google Maps to find the transfer stations. When you know who to call for a last-minute flat tyre, a cow on the loose, or a slab of snap-frozen gummy. When you instinctively travel anti-clockwise at Walker’s Supermarket because clockwise is the wrong direction. Visitors don’t know. They get caught pushing their trolley against the current - like spawning salmon up the North East River - while the rest of us flow silently the other way. That’s just how it’s done.

You’re an Islander when your weather app is the view from your front garden. When “just up the road” could mean five kilometres or fifteen, but you’ll still make the trip without thinking twice because someone needs help shifting their trampoline before the wind takes it to Bridport.

You’re not a local until the Island claims you - and sometimes it never does.
But being an Islander is a different kind of belonging.

It means you’ve stayed long enough to witness seasons, stories, and slow goodbyes.
Long enough for someone to say, “Hey, you’re still here?” and mean it with a smile.

It’s knowing which hills block the phone signal, where the wallabies are thickest on the roads, and how to swerve potholes without spilling your coffee.
It’s realising distance doesn’t mean disconnection - it means breathing space.

It’s finding that edge dwelling rhythm.
It’s lending a hand before it’s asked.
It’s staying until the last person’s left the party.
It’s finding someone else’s dog and taking it home.

It’s saying, “I’m not a local...”
and hearing someone reply, “Yeah, but you’re one of us.”

S x