Oil rigs are just a bunch of ladders
The stain, the brown blood that is leaking in the Gulf of Mexico, was inevitable. Because of our addiction, we slit our own wrists.
That said, I’ll tell you of my trip to an oil rig in the Gulf.
Back in the 1980s, the Powers That Be decided they might make some money by leasing offshore oil sites off the North Carolina coast.
I, as the suddenly dubbed off shore oil drilling expert, was sent to our sister newspaper in Houma, LA, to see what this might entail.
I was on the phone in my motel room with the mayor of Houma, trying to arrange a helicopter flight out to a rig, when the maid came in. I had many papers scattered across the bed. So I leaned over to scoop them up out of her way and popped my knee.
You do see stars.
The mayor was saying, “Hello? Hello?” I was trying to breathe.
I finally gathered my breath and the mayor told me when and where to meet the helicopter the next morning that would take me out to the oil rig.
Once you get in to one of these commuter helicopters, it’s like riding in a flying Cadillac. My two fellow passengers seemed used to the trip. I never did get their names. Their heads were buried in reading newspapers. That was good enough for me, after all.
I watched the sun rise over the Gulf. It’s such a gradual thing when you’re in a helicopter instead of a plane. At dawn it almost burns your eyes with the reflection off the water.
Then, as the sun rose much higher, we landed on the helipad of the oil rig.
I had to get out.
Now, maybe it’s just because I popped my knee and am looking at it from a different vantage point, but oil rigs seem to be made of welded together ladders. And you’re out in the middle of nowhere. There’s nothing but water as far as you can see. Pretty water, but … water.
Once I’d climbed to the 137th floor (exaggerating…a bit) they had nice digs. Air conditioning. Nice cafeteria. And it only swayed a little bit from the waves.
Nice people, too. Most of them noticed I looked rather pale and asked if I needed something.
I don’t remember how I got back down the 37,000 feet of ladders or even the helicopter ride back to glorious land. I don’t remember what I wrote about it, though the clips must be around here somewhere.
But I do remember the people on that rig. I remember their kindness, their professionalism, their eagerness to do the job right. And, OK, a little bit of the tease and flirt.
Thank God they weren’t on the Deepwater Horizon rig that blew up and sank last month, killing 11 and possibly ruining the Gulf Coast for decades.
At least I hope they weren’t.
Words to live by: Don’t do anything you can’t undo.
