A Story in Three Parts – A Memorable Day
Part Two – The Terror Intensifies
At some point, as we were nearing what looked like a huge hangar, one of the guys on the shuttle bus asked me what oil rig I was going to work on. In my pocket I had the information he was asking about. I should have memorized it. He then gave me some unsolicited, helpful hints concerning what I should do when the bus stopped. “Get off the bus, go inside and find the group of chairs under the sign with your rig’s name and number on it. Just wait and someone from that rig will let you know what you have to do next.” He shot off the bus and disappeared into the building in front of me. I tried to follow him, but he had already disappeared into a sea of men, all blending together in a huge mass of activity, frantic motion, and confusion.
The intense level of the noise in the building was overwhelming. This was no normal airport waiting room complete with snack bars and comfortable padded seats, CNN on the television screens. It was quite stark in all respects and unwelcoming to the travelers it housed.
Everyone but me seemed to know you brought your own food and drink, or you did without. Some guys had cassette players and headphones. Most everyone looked instantly bored. I had no food or drink or cassette player. I was far from bored.
I found my place and sat down.
No one talked to me. They had to have noticed me, didn’t they? A voice came over the PA system, “Loading for Shell Platform #35, Gate 7.” With that a group of about twenty men gathered up their backpacks and small carry-on bags and proceeded to the gate whose number had just been called. I watched carefully to observe what was happening. When my time came, and my rig was called, I wanted to look calm and casual, so no one would suspect I was the new guy.
As they approached the gate, every worker was patted down. Everything in the workers’ pockets, jackets, and carry-on bags was emptied in front of an agent from some governmental agency. It was a very thorough inspection. One by one, each man moved on, entering another room.
I could see each guy being given some weird red suit to climb into. The strange garment looked like a cross between a space suit and a very expensive wetsuit you might use for scuba diving in very cold water. As I watched guys maneuver, after putting on the red mystery garment, it was easy to see the suit was very heavy and made moving about a laborious task. Then, one by one, each worker was patted down again and disappeared out the back of the building. What lay beyond that door was, for the moment, unknown to me.
Another rig’s number and gate were called; another twenty guys got up. They shuffled off towards their gate. They followed the exact procedure the crews who went before them had done. A new group of workers was called about every ten minutes. An hour passed. Groups of men would disappear out the back door only to be replaced by new groups of guys coming in from an endless stream of shuttle busses.
Just then, an official looking guy came and asked us all to listen up.
He passed out some paperwork which he said he would explain in a minute. He asked us to be certain we were all going to the rig number on the sign above his head. Once he was satisfied that we were his guys, he started instructions about how to fill out the papers he had given us. It was obvious some of the guys seated under my sign knew his talk by heart. It was also obvious some of the veteran workers in the group, for some reason, needed to be reminded of the required procedures each time they were about to go out on the rig. And for two of us, this was the very first time we had heard the spiel.
First, we were asked to find the map and layout for the rig on which we would be working. There were several floor plans to examine depending on the type of rig that would be our temporary home for the next two weeks. I found my rig. The floor plan indicated all the emergency exits to get off the rig, the locations of life boats to get off the rig, where fire- fighting equipment was located in the event of an oil or gas explosion, and the general layout of the rig’s other accommodations. The instructor stressed the absolute importance of knowing where things were and what we had to do in the in the event we were instructed to get off the rig.
Next order of business was the form that renewed my ever-increasing level of anxiety. At the top of the form, in large print, was the purpose of the form – CONTACTS IN THE EVENT OF YOUR DEATH OR LOSS AT SEA. What? Death or loss at sea? Nobody told me about that in my job description. My imagination already working overtime formed an endless stream of questions I wanted to ask- how would I die? From what activity or circumstance would I die while working and living on the oil rig? And how the heck would I be lost at sea? I wasn’t planning on being that close to the water. I was told the rig’s main deck was at least 75 feet above the ocean at all times. That’s as close as I planned to be to the frigid waters of the North Sea. My terror was real and it was peaking in intensity. Everyone else appeared calm, nonchalant. I was so far from mellow the word had slipped from my vocabulary.
Next, I was directed to stand up in front of what looked like a bedsheet hanging from the ceiling. A very bored looking photographer, who had a nasty smelling cigarette dangling from his lips, took my picture. I was told my new photo ID would be placed on the back of the “death notification” form I was just now completing. I noticed there was also a place on the back of the form for my fingerprints. I had already been fingerprinted before I ever got to Scotland. They too would be added to my ID at some point.
“Contacts in the event of your death or loss at sea” – I found no comfort or context for pondering the disposition of my remains those words suggested. Let me ask you this – have you ever had all your thoughts pushed aside by an all-consuming dread that really scared the heck out of you? I needed some fresh air. I needed to get away by myself before I was summoned to the next set of departure procedures. My grasp on handling current challenges to rational thought processes was rapidly disappearing. I desperately looked for someplace to run where I could get away and try to get control of my thoughts.
Just then my rig number was called. All of a sudden there I was following the other guys in my crew, like lemmings through the gate. All I could think of as I passed through the metal detector were these words, “Abandon hope, ye who enter here.”
End of Part Two
Part Three will be posted next Wednesday, January 24, 2018