It is a bittersweet goodbye. A contract not renewed bringing relief at the thought of not seeing unbearable colleagues and anguish at the job hunting ahead.

Retail and customer service in the cards, I interview with a young pretty lady in a quiet converted mews near Merrion Square.
A four-day trip is immediately planned, for now I am hired as a tour guide for a small start up company.

The next morning, the adventure with ‘Lost in Ireland’ begins at College Green and a mismatch in communications with clients waiting at Busaras.
For my first trip, my three VIPs are from China, and for the first stop, we pick Moneygall in County Offaly.
Moneygall is not like any other town in Ireland. The quiet village of 300-and-something people came under the spotlight as genetics claimed a strong link between its cobblestone streets and President Obama.

American flags aside, the town commemorates the president’s recent visit with plaques, souvenirs and the brand new Barack Obama Plaza, a petrol station adorned with tacky memorabilia engulfed in clouds of petrol and burger smoke.

I catch myself gazing at the Shannon from the top of Bunratty Castle next, and I later contemplate the calling surf in Lahinch in the late afternoon.
With the Irish weather turning the water into a bowl of turbulent knots, we decide for a hike towards the Cliffs of Moher. A tortuous walk across farmlands, under electric fences and curious cattle eyes.
In the morning, we brave the North Atlantic with thick neoprene wetsuits and crash against the cold waves.
Trying to catch my breath, I summon memories from surfing in sultry Rio de Janeiro and pop over a wave that graciously takes me ashore in what seems like slow motion.

We switch surfboards for harnesses at the Burren. Rock climbing is not for the faint hearted, but as the tour guide, I must breathe heavily and place my feet on the wet rock. Hamstrings first, arms right after.
The weather deteriorates as we jump in the van and return to Lahinch for beef and Guinness pies and a warm bed.

In Galway the next day, the Chinese tourists shop in Eyre Square and I befriend an Australian and two German girls at the hostel. We say our goodbyes shortly after hearing our very own row of hostels complaints : farts, snoring, coughing. We will laugh one day, we will laugh today.

For the next couple of weeks in Dublin, I organise clippings, talk to partners and organise more bookings. It is a satisfying office job leading to further outdoor adventures.

Next, I pick my clients in Busaras and head North West, along fields that criss-cross the border with Northern Ireland to Donegal.
‘Tour guiding in a place I have never been. There is a challenge for you’. I sigh as we enter Ireland’s very own Surfer’s Paradise: Bundoran.

Surf and tides are calling and we immediately grab our wetsuits as we check into the lodge. At Rossnowlagh Beach, a solemn hotel overlooks a long sand strand dotted with colourful wetsuits bundled in groups of ten for lessons.
We enter the water at once and crash against each other in bouts of laughter and foamy water. The sun shines over the silver-coloured sea and the spirits levitate as fast as the clouds dissipate at the beginning of the Irish summer.

We dine burgers over the cliffs outside the town, and we hike next to the bright green wave-shaped Benbulben during the afternoon.
I volunteer as first at the high ropes when we visit the Adventure Centre and, facing a newly acquired fear of heights, swallow my fear in the gut-wrenching log walk, forty feet over everyone’s head.

I believe I will always remember the late barbecue outside the hostel. The smell of sizzling burgers lingering across the backyard under the fairy lights, the sunset that refuses to die in the Northern summer, the laughter, the lightness of being the young guy with the cool job. The guide, the rock climber, the surfer, the barbecuer.

The next and last evening in Belfast, I feel challenged by unpaid hostel staff. My first bump on the road. I ring the company and it is sorted as I clear the sweat off my face and plan an evening in a pub next to the Europa Hotel.
Surely, the trip must come to an end, but does it have to end with a trip to the murals and a session of bog snorkeling?

In Kenilworth, I wash the earthy fart smell off my body at and indulge on chocolate brownies. I relax with a glass of wine and plan the next trip to the Bundoran.

And the bumps continue to show up. The bus breaks down and delay us for nearly two hours, the hostel in Bundoran has not been paid upon arrival, and the guests start to see the cracks on their start-up travel company budget adventure.

I dip my feet in the sea and surf away from my customers having a surf lesson. I look up to the sky and think of life. Of failed promises made to myself, of a visa running out of time, of the phoney life I seem to have created around me.
Indeed, the surf cleanses my spirit and lifts me up. Lifts everyone up. Creates smiles, creates excitement of having done something new, of having done it right.

We hike up the antenna and do the high ropes the next day. This time with an added dose of vomit-inducing adrenaline at the trapezes jump.

Towards Antrim, we are assigned a new driver. A performer by nature, we are driven across the border while learning about different accents and chakra alignments.
At the Giant’s Causeway, the legend says the columns are part of a causeway built by the giant Finn MacCool as a passageway to meet its counterpart Benandonner across the water in Scotland. I fulfil a childhood dream of jumping over the basalt stones like a real-life tetris game and take pictures from the top of the cliff overlooking the black melted lava.

We finish the trip in the white sands of Portrush, and drive to Dublin the next morning via Belfast, the colourful murals ironically contrasting with the greyness of both the city and the weather.

The fourth trip with the company and the hiccups start the day before. I meet my clients in College Green under heavy rain and we stop at Lough Erne for a leg stretch.
With no paid reservation at the hostel, I take my group hiking to the antenna while frantically calling the company for an explanation.
We reach an agreement and I am allowed check my clients in. The next morning we surf, though I am mostly worried about the next issue to appear. The cool guy with the cool job coming to an end.

High ropes, no problem. Trapezes, no problem. Late barbecue, no thanks.
I give my clients time off at the Giant’s Causeway and wander on my own, overlooking towards an horizon dominated by the Hebrides in the distance.
In Belfast, I indulge in my own Titanic obsession at the Titanic Quarter , and just as when I was a child, I look in petrified awe at the berth where the famous ship was built, imagining the sheer size of the quill smelling of fresh paint in front of me.
Murals are next for my misfortune. Dublin later for my relief.

The next trips around the country are a hot combination of admin mishaps and unpaid bills, quenched by the friendliness of our budget travel clients and partners.

In Lahinch, I enjoy beers at sunset with an Irish-Australian couple and I rock climb at the Burren under pouring rain. I try grilled halloumi and surfed several times in the same day, the thought of unpaid invoices vanishing in the waves for a few hours.

In Galway, I wander around sharply-dressed people attending the Races. I walk along the Corrib to the NUIG residences and rest my head against the headboard of a single bed at the student accommodation.

In Strandhill, I camp under the rain and try to arrange a new driver as the night sets in. The surf in Strandhill is rocky and patchy at seven in the morning, yet the sight of the Benbulben over the sand dunes make up for the entire trip.

I see Connemara for the first time, and I rejoice at the postcard-worthy sight of Ashford Castle in Cong. I buy junk food in Galway and stay at Corrib Village. Exhausted from all the admin misfits of several trips.

On my last trip with the company I write:

‘Scheduled for yet another Bundoran trip, I left the house early in the morning with doubts of whether the coach was gonna show up or not. Not because there was a mix up, but because the inefficiency of my company’s management was starting to show up.
We were delayed for four hours in Busaras, but we managed to sprint to Bundoran in less than three hours to make up for it‘

Upon arrival, the surf was neat and the clients eager. We hit the waves and checked into the hostel in an air of unpaid bills hostilities. I returned to the beach on my own and grabbed a surfboard for the best surf I have ever had.

On my last trip, my clients bond in a way I had never seen. They cheer each other at the high ropes, they drink together in the dodgy club in Bundoran, they cook breakfast together in Queen’s and they learn together about the murals in Belfast.

I receive a text message three days later announcing the cease of our trading and the owner of the company, the pretty young girl that first interviewed me that sultry summer afternoon, turns off her phone and runs to the United States.

I am left penniless, jobless. I send out CVs and receive a call within two days. I flex through my tight shirt at the interview and I get a job at a Dublin hostel. I save my boat again by being ‘the cool guy that works in a hostel’ and for yet another time, I stay in my little world of youth adventures, refusing to grow up yet.