I still remember what I was reading on that job: a weathered paperback copy of Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts. We had limited space in the small chopper we were on, so I packed light to allow for this rather sizeable book, and I was loving the read. Maybe I thought I was on my own adventure. It was my first offshore trip. The job was nothing unusual, but the location of the site was: perched in the middle of the ocean.

On the surface, this place was familiar. I had been in so many plants like these: rusty, dirty, loud places where I never really fit. It was meant to be an easy job: 28 days commissioning an unmanned offshore platform — slow, steady work, with lots of downtime, hence the large book. I was excited; my first real adventure, the kind that I had heard all the old heads talk about. Sure, I had travelled for work, but not like this. This was for the veterans. I was only 20.

The wind came first. The sea changed shortly after. One moment the waves were lapping gently against the supports, the next they were rising like shoulders shrugging off the calm. The sky turned a dull grey with a tinge of orange, holding back the last glimpse of sunlight. By the early hours, the platform was rocking hard, the metal groaning in protest. Choppers were grounded. We were stuck.

Hours went by, and the platform lost its comfort fast. There were 11 of us on the rig, in the dark, the ocean around us alive with a raw power that I have never experienced since.  The rig wasn’t built for this. We were huddled in the control room, the portable crib room on the deck out of bounds, the bulk of the tobacco stained Russian drill platform perched over us, ominous.     

Just after sunrise, we got word that a pilot was coming — a bit mad, apparently, but willing. The wind had eased just enough. We were loaded up fast, rushed onto the helipad, and strapped in tight. That flight, I must say, was fun. Maybe I was too young or too naïve to sense the danger, but it felt like a ride to me, a moment of exhilaration in the mundane of work. We got back to the support vessel, a little wet and a little rattled but safe in the surging ocean.

After hours we lived on an old ship, slowly circling the rig, rocking in the swell. The crew lounge smelled of old carpet and wet socks. Tired, bored men played card games, gambled, I think, but I wasn’t invited into their circle, being the new youngster on board. We shared stories and I saw photos of others adventures through the Middle East and beyond. I wasn’t sure I wanted the danger, and the battle scars I could see these people wear.

I remember standing alone on the upper deck, hood up against the spray, watching the horizon melt into cloud. The sea was peaceful now, black-green and glistening. I kept thinking, I am not meant to be here.

I felt deeply conflicted out there. I didn’t think of myself as environmentally conscious back then, but it was in me from early on — shaped by childhood trips, camping with my family, and hours spent exploring rock pools the tide had forgotten. I just wanted to protect those memories.

Skip forward a few years, and I was out near Alice Springs, helping build a gas compression station. Nothing but red dirt and sky. The kind of place where your sweat turns to dust by lunch. I remember working away one morning, the sun already hot on my back, flies circling. Five of us were all quietly doing our work when one saw this tiny dot in the sky. A plane, floating oddly silent. Initially, we thought nothing of it, and then a few minutes later, my mate turned to me with a questioning voice. ‘Was that plane's engine running?’ We all looked at each other in quiet uncertainty. We jumped in the troopy and minutes later found the pilot leaning against the fuselage — pale, covered in oil, shaking like a leaf. Engine failure. He kept laughing, this weird kind of relief. He had landed safely on the only road for miles. We gave him water and shade, then waited for a pickup like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Then came Laos.

I boarded the bus in the chaos of Vientiane, motorbikes weaving past, the air thick with dust and diesel, and headed to an unknown location. In my rush to get to this emergency job, I had forgotten to ask one vital question: ‘Where am I going?’. It was supposed to be a five-hour ride, but time stretched out the further we went. The buildings thinned, the road narrowed, and soon we were winding through dense green hills, the crowds replaced with greenery of the encroaching jungle.

The bus was an old Toyota. It was how I had worked out I was heading in the right direction, seeing my name on the list with ‘Toyota’ on the top from a local in high vis with no English. I was the only foreigner aboard. The air inside was hot and still, except for when the driver opened his window and let in a blast of humidity and insects.

By the time we arrived, I was tired from travel and a little uneasy, I liked to be better planned. I booked into the camp and, like any good miner, headed to the wet mess for a beer. That first $1USD Beerlao didn’t touch the sides, and I sat overlooking the dense jungle at the beauty of it all as the sun set.