It is probably worth explaining what happens when you work for 90 consecutive days in an isolated environment. The first week is the hardest, especially because most of us are accustomed to a maximum of five work days followed by two days off. Whether we acknowledge it or not, this creates an unconscious expectation. Our psyches budget our energy for a five day stretch. After that point, you begin to change.

The most important, self-preserving thing to do is accept the present — the sooner the better. Push away any destination-oriented thoughts. You will arrive (or “escape” as the case may be), but spending any mental energy on that day only makes one hour feel like two, or three, or ten. Watch the movie Groundhog Day. Accept what that experience must be like. An experienced long-timer will accept the psychological limbo around day seven, right when the unconscious Energy Management Mechanism clues into what’s going on. It’s usually accompanied by a sigh and an, “Oh, shit.”

Unfortunately, accepting that “this is my life” is only the beginning. After that point, a gradual erosion of tact and diplomacy is certain and, for most, cathartic. Not to mention entertaining for everyone else. After day 45 — or sooner if idiocy is in the near vicinity — violent thoughts are common. Enjoy them. Depending on the type of terrain you’re working in, you are now “bushed,” “peaked” or, if in the desert, “duned.”

The worst offenders are those that won’t admit that they’re fucked up — to themselves along with everyone else who already knows it. Any long-timer that says, “I’m not duned,” is probably the worst of the bunch. Child-like behavior is common. Wide berths are advisable.

The most liberating part of being duned is the honesty of expression that it facilitates. How often have you wanted to tell a stupid person that they’re full of shit? How many times has the arc of a diving bird brought tears to your eyes? I think being duned makes us more animal-like by removing the control mechanisms that lie between stimulus and response. Especially as a Canadian — a victim of an over-conditioning of truth-quelling inoffensive behavior mechanisms — being duned is a welcome thing, especially when it allows for a clear concise, “Fuck off.”

With the exception of the violent fantasies, being bushed or duned once a year for the past three years, has healthily made its way into my normal life. I am more forthright than before my tours of duty, less hesitant to voice my thoughts, good or bad.

My friend Graham handled this summer’s duned-ness the best. After a 21-day heli-rescue stint in Canada, he had one day off, followed by a 92-day stretch in Oman (mid-50C temperatures included). Amazingly enough, Graham kept it together, was funny to the end and bid farewell to Oman in a classic Graham Tutt way: he combined a common Arabic goodbye with LA gangsta slang. As we got on the bus that would deliver us to the airport and cooler, far-off temperatures, Graham bid farewell to Oman.

“Ma sa-fuckin’-laama, yo.”

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