I think about my blog nearly everyday. I think, “You should write. Expound. Spout off. Let both of your followers inside the secret world of the “oilfield trash.” Then, time passes and the blog is there in the background of my thoughts and nothing comes to mind, and the next thing I know a month or more has passed. Yesterday, I thought, “Self, tomorrow, you’re going to write about something.”

So, this past week I arrived on the rig with something. Wasn’t sure what it was. I knew I had it, but could not put a finger on exactly what it was. When someone asked me what I had, I said, “Something.” After that, they’d ask if I needed something, and I said, “No, I have something.” Of course they already knew I had something because they had just asked me what I had and I’d told them “Something.”

Thinking back to all the times I had something I wonder. Once I had something because I ate something. Well, duh, that makes sense. Shouldn’t have eaten something.

I have something now. One of my men asked me this morning if needed something. I told him I already had something. He said, “Maybe your should have taken something before you got it.”

People ask me what we drill. I tell ’em, “Rocks and dirt.” When questioned about my expert geological terminology, I shrug and say, “If it’s hard, it’s rocks. If it’s soft, it’s dirt.”

We do see some interesting dirt and rocks. Drilling off the Aleutian Islands in the Bering Sea the volcanic history of the ocean floor flows across the shale shakers. Fish bones and seashells then abrasive lava and pumice then back to bones and seashells, layer after layer, alternating over and over hundreds of times, for thousands of feet. In the Gulf of Mexico, in what is called a continuous deposition basin, we’ve been known to hit cypress logs at surprising depths.

In the movie Hollywood made about the Deepwater Horizon, I hear they “played like” a dinosaur claw or tusk or whatever was circulated out of the hole. That’s a bunch of baloney. Though, I would be more inclined to believe that story than I would the one told to me about gold coming across the shakers. The specific gravity of gold is 19.3. In other words, gold weighs 8.33 pounds per gallon (weight of freshwater) X 19.3 = 160.7ppg.

Didn‘t happen.

An Indian man carrying a microscope arrived on my rig over in Yanbu, Saudi Arabia. I thought he was a doctor and he was: a rock doctor. His words, not mine. Paleontologist. I don’t think he could say it either. They look for the ’ocenes I call them—Pleistocene, Pliocene, Miocene, Oligocene, Eocene and Paleocene—and talk about nanoflora and nanofossils and throw around words like Catinaster and coalitus and discoaster and optima-optima and discuss stratigraphic tops and dips and on and on until it sounds they’re on the verge of the truly-obscene.

Our conversations are one-sided. I listen intently, nodding, lips pursed, doodling on a pad, and then when they’re done, I ask them to repeat everything they just said … in English.

 

I like to write. No. I love to write. I enjoy penning these blogs, but it seems like I struggle to stay current. Seems like yesterday when I posted the last one, but … My intent is to inform and cause others to wonder, to think about the why and how of the oilfield. Some times I stray from the subject, like after I watch the news and the many self-absorbed news complicators who are more likely to utter a four-letter word than the truth. Complicator is a new word I just invented, a noun: one who uses fifty words when three would suffice.

I’m always a wondering about people, about why they do what they do and what in the name of all-that’s-sensible were they thinking when they did it. Not the good things. I know where those come from. It’s the bad that causes me to pause, reflect and shake my head.

I try to refrain from making comments about other religions. Even after the fourteen years I spent in the Middle East, living as the infidel among the pious.

I recently heard a rumor about a British Airlines flight attendant who announced, “Ladies and gentlemen the captain has turned on the seatbelt sign indicating that we’ve begun our descent to land at King Fahad International Airport. Please raise your seatbacks and tray tables and set your watches back 2000 years.”

That caused a stir. She was detained, then booted from the kingdom, never to be allowed to enter again. When I heard about her comments, I thought Silly girl. You’re misinformed. 1500 years would have been far enough.

I still have the watch.

Have you ever looked at a globe or map that displays the forests and deserts of the world and wondered why the Middle East and North Africa is all desert?

Which country is surrounded by these Muslim nations?

 

 

I don’t remember much about the first safety “officer” I saw on the rig. I saw him too. Never met the man. He was one of those “Corporate” types as mysterious as the mind of a woman: one of those we whispered about in the confines of the doghouse but dared not talk to lest we incur the wrath of Old Drill. This one, not in particular but typical at the time, or so I soon learned, made a tour of the rig, nodding and shaking his head, then promptly crawled into his car and sped away to his lofty office to pen a list of the “deficiencies” he observed. It would be days before we’d learn of his findings.

I always thought: What? If the items were so important that someone could get hurt if they were not corrected, why didn’t the man point them out then and there?

From then on—Safety Weenie, not officer.

Hate to say, but I never had an ounce of respect for a safety weenie. To me, they were the guys who couldn’t roughneck, work derricks, or drill, so instead of sending them packing, the company moved them into the safety department. They got a participation trophy. Couldn’t do the job, but somehow, suddenly, they knew how to do my job safer than I did. Drove me nuts.

Five years ago, I heard that the company I presently work for had employed Safety Weenies to work a rotation on the rig… With me. It was like someone telling me “Wednesday, you’re going to come down with a case of the flu.”

Well, Wednesday arrived, and the helicopter with my new safety weenie touched down on the deck. He stepped into my office, and I sized him up—bald as a newborn piglet, built like a brick outhouse, gray mustache so 55 or so. I looked at the name on his shirt and asked, “Co-op?” He said, “Coop.” I stuck out my hand and he clasped it with an iron grip and squeezed until my eyes bugged out and my left hand was glad it wasn’t involved.

That day Ricky Cooper, Coop, shattered my opinion about Safety Weenies, and he did it with more action than words. He’d been a subsea engineer and a crane operator and had moved to the safety side of the business to make a difference. He did. He worked with the crews, outside, on the deck, rain or shine, day or night. He taught practical skills and observations the men could use. He was the first one to lend a hand, give a pat on the back, or bow his head. The men saw that he cared, and they listened.

Rick is retired now. Forced to by the four-letter word CANCER. He’s fighting. He’s winning.

We miss him out here in our little, fast-paced world of rattling iron, pulsing mud pumps and swinging cranes. He made a difference in the lives of everyone he met and is not forgotten.

I miss him.

Rick didn’t make lists. He made sure there was nothing to note.

Jim Bob sat on the examination table, legs dangling. He fumbled with his reading glasses, then placed them into his shirt pocket. He said, “Look, I’ve heard bad news before. Just tell me straight up, doc. Don’t beat around the bush.”

The doctor cleared his throat and held out the paper showing the test results, as if he needed the document for support so he could say what he must. “It’s cancer.”

Jim Bob took a deep breath. He knew it. “How … how long do I have?”

The doctor shrugged. “Best case, three months.”

“Is there anything you can do for me? Anything at all?”

“Yes. I’m going to recommend that you’re sent back to the rig.”

“Is that going to cure me?”

“No.” The doctor shook his head. “But the next three months will seem like two years.”

Yes, a little humor. Some might think very little humor.

God started time with motion—the earth rotating on its axis, orbiting the sun, creating the days and years that we gauge our existence by. Then, He set a limit on how long we’d live, so we count our age. Time is time. The life we lead, the things we do, what we plan and look forward to, or dread, seems to speed it up or make it drag by, depending upon our perspective.

Ask any oilfield hand who rotates how their time off was, and you’ll hear the same one-word answer every time. “Short.”

Days off from the rig flies by like a night asleep. The days at work feel like … well, as in the joke above. Two weeks can feel like a month, one month like three months. I know people who countdown the days and mark the calendar. I don’t know how they do it. I can write down the date a dozen times a day and not know what day it is. I block the date and days of the week from my mind.

I’ve never stepped on a rig, after any length of time away, no matter which continent or ocean, that I didn’t feel like I’d just left. I’ve never felt that way when I arrived home.

One of these days I’d like to have a miserable time off just to see if they last as long as the time at work.

I think the oceans of the world were more of a mystery to early man than outer space. The moon and stars are visible for man to ponder, but the depths of the oceans cannot be seen at a glance. For millennia mankind had no means to determine water depths, and other than using a seine or fishing line, the life that thrives in the cold, lightless, high-pressure environment below the surface was out of reach … until now.

When drilling wells in deep water, rigs employ a remotely operated vehicle (ROV) for various tasks, but mostly for the high-definition cameras they carry. I was amazed, (still am amazed,) at the critters and fish we see—crabs and eels and octopus and all manner of strange looking fish. You’d think, well, that’s normal until you consider light is nonexistent below 1000 feet, the water temperature is closer to 30 than to 40, and the water pressure, say at 8000 feet where I’ve drilled and seen sea-life wandering the sandy, barren dunes and rocky bottom, is 3550psi.

 

I think about these amazing creatures, the why of them. I wonder if God might have placed them here more for His enjoyment than ours.

Drilling rigs are an expense to an oil company. They consume money. As they get bigger, to drill deeper, the more they eat. Move offshore and it gets nuts—engineering, permits, rig, boats, helicopters, jet fuel, diesel fuel, wellheads, casing, drilling mud, cement, bits, cement unit, mudlogging, deep sea sub, directional drilling equipment, electric logging equipment, casing tongs and slips, a ton of food a week, all the personnel to run the above, and the list goes on.

The rig I’m on had some great success the past three years. We were slow getting started, but that’s expected when a new-built rig is crewed up for the first time. Growing pains are inevitable. Eventually, this rig became one of the best I’ve ever been associated with. I’m not talking about the iron, the rig itself, but the people. I’ve worked with very capable men and women over the years, but never so many at one time.

Ask any number of people associated with this rig why this particular group of people succeeded and you’ll hear as many different responses. I think it’s because they dismiss every pre-tour meeting with a prayer, asking God for guidance, oversight, and success. That’s 140 men and women petitioning God twice a day.

I utilized the boats and helicopters to keep the men and women out here supplied with the material they needed to do the job. I fed the machine.

It was my pleasure.

I’ve mentioned that I worked in the Middle East for a time. A long time actually. Fourteen years in Saudi Arabia with a couple of short stints in Yemen and Dubai. Doesn’t seem like that long now, the time there, looking back, and I’ve been home sixteen years. I hate to think about the sum of the two: half of my lifetime to date.

The experience still has an impact on me. I learned a thousand or so Arabic words, not counting counting to a thousand … in Arabic. Amazingly, I still remember most of them, so I’m able to shock-and-awe with my gift of Arabic gab the many convenience store clerks throughout our country.

I miss a few aspects of desert life in a Muslim country. I was a moonshiner and good one. If someone needs advice, I still remember the recipe and the cut-off temperatures. For the record, I sold the still.

Summertime lasted 44-forevers. In 1000BC a meteorologist said it was going to be hot and sunny for the next 10,000 years. Smart guy.

I enjoyed time around the campfire late at night with my Muslim friends, eating goat and rice or chicken and rice, talking about any and everything but religion. You cannot talk about Christianity with devout Muslims, friend or not.

The title of my blog site says what I’ve tried to write about in my posts, a walk in the patch, the oil patch. Drillers keep the world turning today, but they are a bane to the existence to some and a total mystery to others. More the latter I think. I’ve refrained from writing about Islam or Christianity or the differences between the two … until now.

Everyone wonders about God. Who is He? What does He look like? Why does He do what He does? Why me? Why us? Why mankind? I know I have many more questions than answers. Years ago I was a-pondering God as I sat around the fire, the rig in the background, the Hale-Bopp comet streaking across the starlit sky, listening to Muslim men use my God’s name in vain, in broken, accented English. I thought it was strange. Then the answer came to me. Satan is God’s enemy and man’s tempter. He wouldn’t tempt man to insult a false god. I’ve never heard Allah’s name used in vain, or Mohammed’s, or Buddha’s. Only Jesus and God. My God. And I am well-travelled.

I pray one of your questions has now been answered.

A good friend and his wife retired recently and moved home from the Middle East. They built a house a little northwest of San Antonio and moved in. One morning, my friend poured a cup of coffee and stepped out onto the back porch and sat down. The morning was pleasant: the eastern sky a canvass of colorful rays. He sipped coffee and listened to the Muslim call to prayer. All was well in life until … Wait just a darn minute. I’m in Texas. He jumped and looked around just to make sure and screamed for his wife to come lend an ear and help determine the source of the disturbance.

When he recognized the pop-pop-pop of a .50 cal. opening up on the mock Middle Eastern village erected just across the canyon, on Camp Bullis, an Army training base, he sat down and finished his coffee.

I wrote my first story using my first computer, a Compaq something or other that took 10 minutes to start and ran at the speed of tortoise when it did. The story was short, something about chasing a Bedouin’s camels around in the desert to prevent them from eating my golf balls or some such thing. Wasn’t a bad tale as I recall, but my new computer gave me fits, underlining everything I penned in a rainbow of colors. After a little research into the problem I thought, Oh, thats what my Engish teacher mint win she told me two take good care of my back inn the future cause Id need it.

Recently I wrote a procedure for the rig to follow. I proofread it, printed a dozen copies, and then handed them out in the pre-tour meeting. It looked something like the following.

• POOH w/ FMC LPWHH R/tl.
• L/O DAT & service DDM, TFM, VPH as needed
• M/U BHA & test MWD and mtr
• RIH
• ROV guide to WH. Give OIM & DPO 20-min notice.
• Stab in and RIH
• Drlg cmt, flt equip, & drl to TD w/ SW
• Bk/rm to shoe dspl to 13.5 PAD
• POOH to LPWHH and ck stabs
• RIH to tag
• POOH. Open PBL & wash LPWHH on the way.
• L/O BHA
• R/U to RIH csg.

Before we dismissed, I asked if anyone had any questions. No one did.

I went to high school with a guy who aspired to own a funeral home. He worked as a mortician’s apprentice after school. I know. Someone has to do it. At least in our culture.

They make money at it—lots of money. Believe it or not, some people can’t afford to die.

Someone has to pick up trash and clean sewers and pump septic tanks and dig ditches and hold warning signs in construction areas and a mop floors and roughneck on drilling rigs.

Having said all the above, the catering company that serviced my rig for the past 2 ½ years lost their contract. These were American men and women, mostly from southern Louisiana and Mississippi, who cooked and cleaned toilets and made beds and washed clothes and dishes. Menial? I suppose … unless you’re hungry and it’s the only job available at the moment. Then maybe it’s the bridge in the gap between what one has to do until something else arises. Sometimes it’s the only job one is qualified to perform. Then, it’s making a living.

They were replaced by a crew of Filipinos, from the Philippines, who, as mentioned in a previous rambling, call me Mr. Dabid. Go figure.

There is a huge difference in the quality of services provided by each catering company. The Americans walked around looking at their iPhones, checking social media sites. When they found a moment, they mopped, cooked, and washed clothes and dishes. Most, not all, had to be prodded to do what they’d agreed to do in the first place.

The Filipinos work. Work. Work. And they have a smile on their faces.

The Americans, my countrymen and women, had and still have all the opportunities to succeed this country has to offer, but they had/have no drive—no want to.

The Filipinos have little, if any, opportunities in their home country, but they possess the want-to.

Gumption is an outdated word. I heard it when I was a kid. “Boy, you got to have gumption!” or “Show some gumption and do the right thing!” or “Better find you some gumption!”

Seems like some Americans have lost their gumption.