Rig type units lead double lives. We have the one we live at home with our families and the one we live when on the rig. The latter life is lived away from our families, for our families. Yes, it’s rough, crazy sometimes, and at times the pain makes you question whether the money is worth it. It’s funny too. Rig life is linked to family life, but family life is not linked to rig life. Most of us try to leave the rig on the rig when we go home.
Marriages last longer.
Life goes on when we’re out here in our closed little world. A couple of weeks ago one of my men lost his brother. He got a special helicopter just as quickly as the pilots could get spooled up and off the ground to come get him.
Two days ago a man received news that his son was killed in an automobile accident. The man lived in Mexico—the old one not the new one. He does not speak English. His supervisor brought him into my office and translated his thanks to me for getting him a special chopper. We shook hands and hugged, and he cried. I cried. For just a moment, we spoke the same language.
Several months ago I began working out in preparation for a sheep hunt in Alaska. These hunts are very demanding and frankly not fun if you’re not in good shape. Having said that, there is no way of determining how good a shape you’re in until you go on a sheep hunt, so … This next Friday I’m going to find out. Anyway, at home, in that life, I would leave the house just after five every morning with my backpack and walk 30 minutes away, then turn around and head home. For my other life on the rig, I purchased a weight vest to walk with. This morning my mud engineer walked into my office. He looked at the vest hanging on the arm of a chair, picked up one corner and let it fall. “This is a suicide vest. Just takes longer.”
Tuesday afternoon, I’m done with the vest, I’m going to give it someone I don’t like.