Bridging The Gulf--A Love Story

A semi-fictionalized account of how I met my husband on an oil rig in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico

The first time I heard my husband’s name was in the fall of 1980.  I was 23 years old and had just started work for Gulfdril Company, an offshore drilling contractor headquartered in downtown Houston.  After a brief, and unfulfilling, stint working as a paralegal in Austin, I had moved back home to my parents’ house and was looking to launch myself in a new direction.  The oil and gas industry in Houston was red hot at that time.  Jobs were plentiful and opportunities for women were opening up on all levels. 

 

As an English major and a certified paralegal, I had a specific set of job skills that at first glance didn’t seem to mesh very well with working for a drilling company.  But God often makes a path where one doesn’t ordinarily look.  Gulfdril Company was actually LOOKING for someone with good English skills.  I was hired to work in the Training and Loss control department.  The company wanted to produce drilling manuals and a company newsletter.  The seasoned veterans of the oil industry had a great deal of knowledge and experience to share, but didn’t necessarily have the communication and writing skills to complete a training manual.  They were thrilled to find me, and I was thrilled to find them.  I hired on and my new adventure began.

 

Part of my duties as an “analyst”, which was a code word for department secretary, was to schedule the offshore workers for the necessary training and continuing education courses required to keep them up-to-date with government regulations.  Many of these “schools” were actually held on-site in our company conference rooms.  Others were located in various cities along the Gulf Coast.  The men who came to these schools were rig managers, drillers, tool pushers, and barge engineers. 

 

As luck would have it, the T&L Control department had just finished one such school the week before I began work there.  After a few days’ time, an envelope arrived from the printers with the Certificates of Completion for the BOP (Blow Out Prevention) school that had just been held.  I was filling in the necessary dates and names of the graduates when my boss, Bill Grafton, came strolling by my desk.  He was an Aggie, only a few years my senior, and a rather loud individual.  He glanced down and boomed out a name:  “Jack Marsden! Barge Engineer on the Unimak Key!” 

 

Now, I don’t know why, but that name stuck with me.  I had never met the man.  Didn’t know a thing about him.  But to this day, I can still hear Bill’s voice in my head, ringing out, “Jack Marsden!”  It was one of those crystalline moments that are held suspended in time, like a sparkling drop of dew that dangles enticingly at the tip of a leaf, refusing to turn loose.  Perhaps it was only that I was new to my job, new to my duties, and I was paying extreme attention to every detail during those first weeks.  Or perhaps, somewhere in my psyche, that name reverberated with a significance that would become the linchpin upon which my life would exist for the next thirty four years. 

 

I really didn’t give the man or the name another thought until about 6 months later, in March, 1981.  During my 6-month employment I had begun to chafe under the restrictions of my duties as department secretary.  Nominally at least, I was an “analyst” and a management trainee.  Only I wasn’t being treated the same way as the male management trainees.  There were several young men working at Gulfdril who, like me, were college graduates with no experience in offshore drilling.  Unlike me, they were being sent to work for two week stretches on the Gulfdril rigs in the Gulf of Mexico.  A couple of them were even working one month hitches on overseas rigs off the coast of Brazil or Nigeria.  Now, I wasn’t such a fool as to want to go to Nigeria!  But I didn’t see why I couldn’t also go and at least visit some of the rigs in the Gulf.

 

As I have said, my immediate boss was a young man, and Bill was not all that opposed to the idea of sending me out to the rigs to gain some experience.  By that time, I had proven myself to be a capable and intelligent person who learned quickly and had a desire to learn more.  Bill quietly slipped me some training materials so that I could begin to learn more about the process of drilling, the equipment on the rigs, and the terminology or lingo commonly used on the rigs.  But the upper brass - the vice presidents and the president of the company - were decidedly against the idea of sending a woman from the office out to the rigs. Women had no place on an oil rig, and that was that.

 

Not that there weren’t at least some women on the rigs.  Even Gulfdril employed a few cooks and housekeepers who worked in the Gulf of Mexico.  Not every rig had them, but on the larger rigs there were a few.  Some of the rigs were platform or jack up rigs.  Quarters were cramped and tight, and for the most part, there were no women on those types of rigs industry-wide.  But on the semi-submersible rigs there was more living space, and a few of the cabins had been converted into women’s quarters.  One of those semi-submersible rigs was the Unimak Key.

 

Bill had done his training on the Unimak Key and was intimately acquainted with just about everyone on the crew, including the toolpusher, Wayne Markson.  So one Friday afternoon in March he called me into his office for a chat.

 

“So, Katie, are you serious about wanting to go out to the rigs?” he asked.

 

“Yes!” I said.  “You know I am.  I need to get out there, Bill.  I need to see how everything works.  I need to understand more about the rigs, the different jobs, how things really are.”

 

By this time, I had taken over doing the weekly Orientation sessions for new hires.  For an hour and a half, I did a slide show explaining various aspects of the drilling industry, the different positions available, how one advanced “up the ladder” from the lowly roustabout with his mop and paintbrush, to roughneck, or crane operator, or ballast control, and on up to the management positions of driller, barge engineer and toolpusher.  I talked about drug tests, safety rules, travel arrangements, helicopter and boat travel, and all the other aspects of offshore employment, all without one bit of first-hand knowledge myself. 

 

To my surprise, Bill just grinned at me like he was Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy, about to bestow a big unexpected blow-me-away gift.

 

“Okay, then.  Next week Mr. Pulsiver is going to South America.  He’ll be gone for a month.  I think we can send you out for a two-week hitch and get you back again before anyone is aware of what’s going on.”

 

I goggled at him.  Harold Pulsiver was a vice-president and Bill’s immediate supervisor.  I couldn’t believe Bill would be willing to do something so sneaky behind his back.

 

“I’m gonna send you to the Unimak Key.  I’ve already talked it over with Wayne.  They’re expecting you to make the next crew change.”

 

Wayne, I knew, was the toolpusher or the OIM, offshore installation manager, on the rig, which meant he was the top dog out there.  If HE said it was okay, I could go.  If he had said no, I would have stayed put.   I figured this was a once-in-a-lifetime chance for me.

 

“Okay,” I said, nervous and excited.  “What do I need to do?”

I had a few days to get ready before crew change.  I needed steel-toed boots, a hard hat, and coveralls.  The coveralls and hard hat were fairly easy.  Gulfdril maintained a “closet” of sorts for new hires.  All newbies on the rig had to wear bright orange coveralls, proclaiming their status and their ignorance of all things off-shore.  The guys all hated them, but had to wear them for the first three months, at which time they were either proclaimed unfit for offshore life and turned loose, or promoted to permanent roustabout positions and given bright “Gulfdril green” coveralls to wear.  However, since women were not allowed outside of the living quarters on the rig, they wore lovely gold polyester pants and a buttoned smock top.  It had been decided that I did not have to endure the ignominy of the bright orange coveralls and could be issued the green ones for my visit. But I would also need the gold polyester pants.

 

Well, thank the Lord for small mercies, I thought, as I tried on several different pairs of heavy men’s coveralls, trying for the best fit.  At least I was being spared wearing the bright orange.  

The men's coveralls were made of heavy duty canvas twill, stiff with pockets and zippers and thoroughly unsuited for the female form.  But I was tall and thin and eventually found some that had a reasonable fit.  I also had to pick out a set of the two piece gold uniforms the women in the galley wore.  Since most of the women were rather short and round, the sizes ran mostly to short and XL, and none of the pants even came close to covering my ankles.  But, I consoled myself, it was only for a couple of days.  I would survive it.

 

A hard hat would be provided for me once I reached the rig.  But I was on my own for the steel-toed boots.  Nowadays steel-toed footwear comes in all shapes and sizes.  You can even buy steel-toed tennis shoes.  But back then, there was only Redwing Boots.  On Saturday morning, I took myself off to a small hole-in-the-wall specialty shop that sold working menswear, items like Carhartt overalls and Redwing boots.  It wasn’t easy finding a pair of men’s boots that fit my size 7 foot.  And when I finally did, the only style available was lace-ups.  Not knowing any better, I bought them and lugged them home.

 

On Monday night, I had to be at the Greyhound bus station in downtown Houston at 10 p.m. to make crew change.  My parents drove me there.  My parents had been understandably concerned about my upcoming trip to an offshore oil rig.  My dad was torn between being proud of me and worried about what kind of treatment I might be subjected to in the chauvinistic, all-male world of oil rigs.  My mom was certain I would be raped or ravished, then tossed overboard for shark bait.  We were all nervous and anxious about what I was about to do, but I was putting up a brave front.  It was the early 1980s and I was breaking new ground: equality for women in the modern workplace! 

But just then I wasn't feel so fervent about my quest.  I had never been to a bus station in broad daylight, much less at 10 o’clock on a frigid cold March night.  The place was crawling with winos and homeless folk, looking for a warm shelter from the icy cold winds howling down the canyons formed by downtown Houston skyscrapers.  Thankfully, we spotted the big charter bus, clearly marked Gulfdril, idling in a cloud of diesel exhaust, the cold air making condensation gather on the rear windows, and headed over, me lugging my duffel bag along behind me.

 

I had been told there would be a strict weight limit for the trip out to the rig on the helicopter, so I had packed light.  My two pair of coveralls, my boots, the gold pant suit, some underwear and pajamas, an extra pair of jeans, a couple of tees, and a sweater.  I had a few toiletries with me, but I didn’t even pack a book!  While on duty, the women on the rigs were not allowed to wear make-up or jewelry or perfume so as not to incite any unseemly lust on the part of the men.  We would be allowed to change into street clothes when we were off-duty, but make up was still frowned upon.   

Antiquated, evil-minded old men, I thought.  I’m not going out there to seduce anybody; I’m going out there to work!

 

Still the seeds of doubt had been planted. There was a popular bumper sticker seen often on the backs of pickup trucks in Houston during that time that proclaimed: Oilfield Trash and Proud of It!  My mother's anxious face said: you be careful out there!  My dad's face said: watch yourself, kiddo!  Despite my bravado, my nerves were jangling.  I kissed my parents good bye and stepped on board, certain I was about to face a fate-worse-than-death.  What had I been thinking?  Why on earth had I thought I wanted to do something so ridiculous as ride a bus, all night long, with a bunch of roughnecks to Morgan City, Louisiana?  I was insane.

 

The bus pulled out of Houston and belching gas and fumes, headed off down I10 to Beaumont, Texas, where it would make another stop to take on more folks for crew change.  I was nervous and cold, sitting by myself near the front of the bus, hoping for some heat from the vents near the driver.  I had my navy blue sweater wrapped tightly around myself, much like armor protecting me from assault and cold drafts.  My bag sat on the seat next to me, a barricade to hide behind.  I could hear the others on the bus, all talking and joking with one another.  They were a convivial group, obviously long acquainted and used to working with one another.  Besides the good-natured ribbing, there were small snatches of conversations, people catching up with one another after a separation of two weeks.  The crew of the Unimak Key worked 14 days on and 14 days off.  They exchanged stories of their time off, and indulged in a bit of ribald speculation on how some of their co-workers had spent the last two weeks.  Had I been able to relax, I might have enjoyed listening to them.  As it was, I was too preoccupied with my own thoughts and insecurities to even make eye contact with anyone.  They were probably all reprobates and sex fiends.  What was I doing here? 

 

We pulled into the bus stop at Beaumont around 11:30 p.m. and I knew we would be there for a half hour.  I thought I’d better get off and go to the bathroom while I had the chance, and maybe find something warm to drink, like hot chocolate.  I was just going down the steep steps of the bus when a voice behind me said, “Can I buy you a Coke?”

 

I turned and there was a man in a Marlboro sheepskin jacket standing on the top step behind me.  Mid-thirties, physically fit, nice eyes, he was smiling a little, and seemed friendly enough.  But by that time, I had worked myself into quite a state of nerves and apprehension.  There I was in the middle of the night on a bus full of strange men, and I was quite sure they were all eyeing me lasciviously, at the very least. 

 

“No!” I said, more vehemently than I had intended.  For God’s sake, the man did not just proposition me with a Coke, did he?  I wanted to take it back, at least say “no thank you” with a gracious smile, but it was too late.  The man’s smile vanished. 

 

He shrugged, with an obvious “suit yourself” type of look, and proceeded to ignore me. 

 

In fact, everyone ignored me.  I spent a bit of time in the ladies’ room, giving myself a stern talking-to, but it was too little, too late.  I had isolated myself from the moment I entered the Houston bus station, speaking to no one, making no eye contact, sitting alone with my bag in the seat next to me to keep strangers away.  And now I had just turned down the first friendly overture made to me.  Way to go, Katie, I thought to myself.  I went back out, bought some hot chocolate from a vending machine and sat alone in a corner, waiting for the call to board.

 

To my surprise, we picked up several women at the Beaumont station.  But whether it was my demeanor or some unspoken signal among the original riders, none of them spoke to me as we boarded the bus again.  Fine.  I didn’t need them either.  But the night had turned bitter cold and the bus was freezing.  The driver said there was a problem with the heating system.  Ya think?   My thin navy sweater was nowhere near adequate to keep me from shivering.  I huddled down into my seat, but I was immediately aware that the man I had snubbed over a Coke was sitting directly behind me. 

 

With the addition of the women, the mood on the bus changed.  There was laughter and some mildly flirtatious chatter going on now.  One of the women was a young girl, certainly younger than I, and she was quite loud and vulgar.  Her name was Dot.  She was teasing the men, moving up and down the aisle, leaning over seat backs, and generally enjoying her reign as belle of the ball on the cold, dark greyhound.  She was dressed in a ridiculous pair of tight jeans and an even tighter tee shirt that stretched, straining mightily over her ample bosom.  She looks like a cow, I thought, miserably. 

 

Suddenly she landed with a thud in the one empty seat behind me, and said in a loud voice, “It’s f****n’ freezing in here!  Let me get under your jacket, Jack.” 

 

Jack?  As in, “Jack Marsden, Barge Engineer”?

 

As I listened to the giggles and the slitherings going on behind me as the two occupants settled themselves beneath the big sheepskin coat, I realized that I had just insulted one of the managers on the rig and quietly groaned.  Dot giggled again as the man murmured something I could quite hear, and I thought sourly to myself, “He’s probably feeling her up, the s**t.”  I had no doubt whatsoever that the next week was going to be pure hell, filled with s****y women and half-depraved oil field trash, all looking for ways to make my life pure misery. 

 

* * * * *

 

That long cold dark night finally ended, as all long cold dark nights eventually do, and we rolled into Morgan City, Louisiana, just as the sky was beginning to lighten.  Morgan City was a major jumping off point for many of the oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico.  The town itself, perched on the edge of the great delta formed by the Atchafalaya River, wasn’t much to look at, but there was a huge heliport located there.  I stumbled off the bus, clutching my bag, and wondering, “Now what?”  The place was a beehive of activity, men and pilots purposefully striding about in the pre-dawn light, choppers humming although none had taken off yet.  I noticed that Jack and a couple others were immediately taken off to a waiting chopper, and within moments it lifted straight up and was gone.  That made sense.  The in-coming managers would be the first to fly out to the rig, and the out-going managers would be the last to leave the rig.  Handover notes and updates would need to be accomplished before the crew change was complete.  The rest of us would be flown out in order of importance.

 

Suddenly a burly man hold a clip board popped up in front of me and demanded, “How much do you weigh?” 

 

Taken aback, both by his sudden appearance and the bluntness of his question, I hesitated a moment, trying to make sense of his request. 

 

“How much do you weigh, girlie?” he barked again.  I flushed.  Girlie?  What a toad!

 

“One thirty-five,” I said, a little defensively.  It was probably more like 140, but it was none of his damn business, was it? 

 

“What about your bag?”

 

I glanced at the duffle bag at my feet.  It was my dad’s duffle bag, a leftover from his navy days.  I had no idea what it weighed. 

 

“Uh, fifty?” I said.  After all, those steel-toed boots were in there.  And those heavy coveralls.  All of that weighed quite a bit.

 

“Huh,” was all he said, seemingly satisfied, and stalked off.  Belatedly I realized that he was figuring up the weight limits for the helicopters and was probably going to place me in a chopper based on the information I had just given him.  Oh, God.  I wanted to call him back, give him more accurate information, but it was too late.  I was going to die in a chopper crash because I didn’t know how much my damn bag weighed!

 

But I couldn’t just keep standing there on the tarmac forever.  And besides I need to find the ladies room and something hot to eat or drink.  I shuffled off in search of a waiting area and maybe a vending machine or something.  There wasn’t much in the way of amenities available.  I found the ladies room and an ancient vending machine dispensing lukewarm coffee.  I didn’t like coffee anyway, but I could drink it if it was heavily laced with sugar and cream.  I dropped in my quarters and selected my choice, but the machine was evidently out of sugar and cream that morning.  I took one bitter black sip, and grimacing, tossed the full cup in the trash. 

 

Several choppers came and went before it was my turn to fly out to the rig.  I was definitely not a priority guest.  The girl from the office was going to be low man on the totem pole, I thought grimly.  It was probably only going to get worse from here.  Was it too late to go back to my nice comfy boring job in the main office?

 

The chopper ride was bumpy and quick.  The sides of the chopper were open.  I found that alarming.  I was packed in with four or five others on a bench seat, but since I was in the middle and in no danger of falling out, I tried to relax and enjoy the novelty of flying in a helicopter.  Didn’t happen.  Before I could talk myself into being a rational human being, we were hovering over a big green drilling rig set miles from shore in the middle of the dark blue waters of the Gulf.  The chopper touched down on the helipad on the rig and people began to hop off.  I debarked, remembering to duck my head, and someone grabbed my arm and hustled me inside a steel door that led to the radio operator’s room. 

 

My guide led me down some steel steps and then we were down in the living quarters.  He showed me to the door of the women’s quarters and left.  Huh.  Well, let’s have a look then. 

 

The women’s quarters consisted of two rooms.  The outer room was a lounge area of sorts.  There was an old battered Naugahyde couch (green, of course) shoved up against one wall.  A scuffed coffee table covered with an assortment of tattered magazines sat in front of the sofa.  Neither was particularly inviting.  A round table with some plastic chairs sat in another corner.  And, incongruously, an ancient exercise bike sat in a third corner facing a wall mounted TV.  I crossed the linoleum tile floor through a door into the second room.  This was obviously the bunk room.  Four sets of bunk beds, each made up with plain white sheets and a navy wool blanket, were arranged around the perimeter, one against each wall.  There were some small gray metal lockers stationed in each corner.  And that was it.  No windows.  No artwork or posters on the walls.  Nothing personal or inviting.  Just cold stark living quarters.  Clean, but not homey.

 

I was just wondering what bunk would be mine when an older woman came in.  She was short, squat, middle-aged, and had a kind face. 

 

“Hey y’all,” she said.  “I’m Dimple.  You must be the girl from the office.”

 

I was reasonably certain she hadn’t been on the bus from hell, so she didn’t know she wasn’t supposed to speak to me.  I smiled back.

 

“Yes.  I’m Katie.” 

“Well, good.  Glad you’re here.”  Dimple spoke with that slow, slow drawl endemic to native Mississippians.  “You can stow your stuff on that top bunk there.  There’s only six of us here right now, but all the bottom bunks are taken.”

 

“That’s all right,” I said.  “I’m tall.  And I prefer the top bunk anyway.”

 

“Wayne said for me to tell you to go straight on up to his office when you arrived,” Dimple continued, grabbing my arm and pulling me along.  “But you probably want to visit the little girls’ room first, right, honey?” 

 

She towed me back out into the main hallway, directing me to the women’s bath.  There were two shower stalls, a couple of sinks, and three bathroom stalls.

 

“It’s not much,” Dimple said, “But it’s private.  And clean,” she added, as an afterthought, rolling her eyes.  “Wait ‘til you see the men’s change room!   Lordy, some of those boys was just raised in a barn!”

 

After a brief glance in the mirror, I felt like might have come straight from a barn myself, but there was no help for it.  I was still in my street clothes from the night before, and I felt rumpled and my teeth were gritty.  I was also hungry.  But there was no time for a quick shower, clean hair or teeth, or fresh clothes.  I sighed and followed Dimple to another steel staircase, where she pointed up. 

“Just go to the right when you get up there.  Wayne’s office is at the end of the hall.  I got to get back to the galley.  Them boys will be wantin’ to eat again soon.”  And she was gone. 

 

I straightened my back and walked the stairs.  I had asked for this, right?  No, I had demanded this.  I wanted to be treated just like any other management trainee in the office.  I wanted equal treatment with the guys.  That meant going out to the rigs on a regular basis.  I could do this.  I could.

 

I easily found the toolpusher’s office on the second floor.  The radio was crackling and the sounds of men’s voices made it obvious which room to head towards.  I stepped across the thresh hold and four male heads popped up at once. 

 

Wayne Marsden, the OIM, sat in a big black leather chair in the center of the office.  He was tall, dark-haired, and in his mid-forties.  There were two other men I didn’t recognize on his left. And there, on his right, was the man from the bus. The one I insulted.  Jack, I thought.  Great.

 

Wayne was all business, but cordial and polite.  He introduced himself, allowed me to do the same, then asked me to have a seat while he finished up a few things.  I sank onto a small swivel stool and listened, trying to act interested in my surroundings, rather than exhausted and wracked with nerves.  After a few minutes, the two men left and Wayne turned back to me. 

 

“I expect you and Jack met on the bus,” he began, by way of introduction.  I flushed, but nodded.  The man in the sheepskin coat was now wearing Gulfdril green coveralls, and he had a rather guarded expression on his face.  Not overt animosity, exactly, but not friendly either.

 

“Jack here is our barge engineer,” Wayne said, with one eyebrow, slightly raised, questioning.  Did I know what a barge engineer was?   Of course I did.  The barge engineer headed up the one of the chains of command on the rig. There were really two non-stop series of activities on an oil rig.  One was the drilling side, which continued day and night.  The drill crew, made up of roughnecks, derrickmen, drillers, mud engineers, and more worked 24/7 in the quest for finding oil deep under the ground.  The rest of the personnel on the rig also worked around the clock, their purpose to support the drill crew and insure there was as little down time as possible on the drill floor.  Roustabouts, crane operators, motormen, welders, electricians, radio operators, and store keepers - all of these reported to the barge engineer, whose job was to keep the rig floating and functional at all times. 

 

“Now, as I understand it,” Wayne drawled in his slow Mississippi accent, “you’re here to learn how each of the positions on this rig works, is that right?  You want some hands-on experience on what it’s like to live and work on an oil rig?”

 

I nodded and tried a smile. 

 

“Well, yes.  You see, I teach the new employee Orientation sessions in the office and I need to be able to understand and answer questions from new hires about what their jobs will be like out here.” 

 

Wayne and Jack exchanged a glance, which while brief, spoke volumes.  Both of them had worked with and knew my boss Bill from his time on this rig quite well.  And I could see what they thought of this plan as plain as vanilla ice cream: Bill has lost his ever-lovin’ mind, sending some girl from the office out here for us to babysit.

 

“Hmm,” said Wayne.  “I see.  Well, we’ll give you a few days to get your bearings out here first, all right?  You can start in the galley.  Dimple knows what I want you to do there.”  He gave me a very direct look.  “Under no circumstances are you to go outside the living quarters without either myself or Jack here with you, is that understood?”

 

“Yes, sir,” I said, as respectfully as I could manage.  Not by so much as a word or gesture had either man been anything but polite to me, but I could feel myself being patted on the head and sent away, like a good little girl.  However, I hadn’t waited six months and endured the bus ride from hell for nothing.  “But, I wonder, would it be possible for me to have a brief tour of the rig first?” 

 

Wayne looked a bit surprised, but then nodded thoughtfully. 

 

“You have your boots?  Your coveralls?” he asked.

 

“Oh, yes,” I said. 

 

“All right.  Jack, give this young lady a few minutes to get changed.  Then you take her on a tour outside.” 

 

To his credit, Jack just nodded and said to me, “I’ll meet you at the women’s quarters at 13 hundred hours.” 

 

Drat, I thought, I’m gonna have to spend the afternoon with him.  But I smiled and nodded back. 

 

“Thanks!  I’ll be waiting.”

 

* * * * *

To be perfectly honest, the afternoon didn’t go all that well.  Jack was polite, but he obviously had a lot on his mind.  As he took me around the rig, he was constantly checking on things and the men were coming to him with questions and concerns.  It was quite clear, several times, that had I not been with him, he would have gone off with one man or another to investigate a problem, but since I was there, he would only talk briefly, and then say something like, “I’ll get back to you on that in a bit.” 

 

And we did a LOT of climbing.  Everything on an offshore oil rig is either straight up or straight down.  I wasn’t used to walking in the heavy steel-toed boots and the hard hat was awkward and giving me a headache.  And it was March.  The wind was blowing and it was cold out there in the middle of the Gulf.  By the time we sat down on a bench just outside the living quarters to remove our boots, I was feeling the effects of a long sleepless night, very little food, and nerves. 

 

One of the hard and fast rules on the rig was “no boots in the living quarters”.  Most of the guys had slip on boots, and it was immediately apparent why. Every single time a deck hand went in and out of the living quarters, he had to either remove his boots or put on his boots.  Well, heck.  I had bought lace-up boots.  It seemed to take forever for my frozen fingers to undo those long rawhide laces while Jack just stood there waiting on me. 

 

Finally I had them undone and we entered into the men’s lounge area.  Unlike the small women’s lounge, this room was outfitted with several large sofas, a few recliners, tables, chairs, two TVs with video players, a stereo system, and three exercise bikes, plus a treadmill!  Wow.  I wondered when the guys ever had time to enjoy such a set up.  It was virtually deserted at the moment.  Jack headed towards a small coffee bar set up in one corner.

 

With the first hint of a smile, he said, “'Long about this time, every day, I come in here for a cup of coffee.  Would you like one?”

 

Aww, hell.  For the second time in less than 24 hours the man was offering me something to drink and for the second time I was going to turn him down.  But at least this time I could do it with a little more grace.

 

“No, but thanks.  You see, I don’t drink coffee.”   

 

He eyed me for a moment.  “And you don’t drink Cokes either.”

 

I gave him a chagrined look.  “I’m sorry about that.  Actually I do like Coke, very much.”

 

He didn’t comment, but just fixed his own cup, and then turned to me. 

 

“That’s about all the tour for today.  I’ve got some things I need to see to.  Wayne said he wants you to start out in the galley for now.”

 

“Yeah, I remember.”

 

He pointed me in the right direction, said good-bye, and was gone.  I sighed.  So far I hadn’t made much of an impression on anyone, and it was promising to be a very long two weeks. 

 

 

* * * * *

The women who worked on the Unimak Key were an interesting group.  There was the camp boss, usually a position held by a man, but on this rig it was an older woman named Marge.  She was in charge of the galley and all the female personnel.  Dimple, whom I had met earlier, was a cook.  Two more girls did a variety of cleaning and laundry chores.  This included Dot, she of the well-endowed figure, and Marcie, a tall stick figure of a woman.  There was also a woman named Lucy who ran the warehouse.  And another sweet faced girl named Joannie who worked in ballast control.  Only two of the women were married.  Marge was widowed and Dimple was divorced. They all agreed that working off-shore was really hard on a relationship, although Dot claimed to have several boyfriends waiting for her back home. 

 

“I’ll just bet you do,” I thought, uncharitably.  For some reason, the fact that she had snuggled up with Jack under his big warm coat the night before rankled me.  I didn’t like it and I didn’t exactly know why, but I wasn’t much inclined to be friendly with the girl.

 

That first afternoon, they put me in the laundry.  Nothing very hard about doing laundry.  The large commercial washing machine and dryer churned rhythmically, and the smell of laundry soap was comforting and homey.  But there was a small window in the laundry room and I made the mistake of watching the horizon rock up and down, and up and down, and up and down.  Oh crap!  I was going to be sick!

 

Having grown up on the coast, I’d been riding in motor boats, sail boats, and ski boats all my life.  I never got sea sick.  But I was definitely feeling the motion of the big semi that afternoon.

 

“Hey, hon, are you all right?” Dimple asked, concerned, when she popped in to check on me.  “You look a little peaked.”

 

I swallowed hard.  “I think I have a little motion sickness,” I said.

 

“Oh, shoot, honey.  Why didn’t you say so?  We got some Dramamine in the galley.  Let’s go get you some.” 

 

Two Dramamine and a large glass of fizzy Coke later, I was feeling much better.  A semi-submersible rig, unlike a jack-up rig, actually rests upon giant pontoons that sit on the ocean floor.  Stable enough for drilling, the rig does move slightly with the movement of the water.  A slight rocking motion can be felt most of the time. Somehow, no one had ever mentioned that to me.  I was mentally storing up tips for the next Orientation class I would teach:  know how much your gear weighs; buy slip-on boots, not lace-ups; bring Dramamine in your shaving kit.  I needed to start writing these things down.

 

As I fell into my bunk that night, totally exhausted, I thought there was nothing that could keep me from going right to sleep, but I was wrong.  The ladies had put me in a top bunk, but on a north wall.  There is something quite soothing about being rocked gently to sleep when you’re rocking from side to side.  It’s an entirely different experience when you’re being rocked from head to toe.  I dreamed I was on a roller coaster ride all night long.

 

For the next two days, I worked inside the galley and the living quarters.  Nothing like starting from the bottom up, I thought. 

Life on the rig had a rhythm all its own.  Everything ran in six- and twelve- hour shifts.  The tour (pronounced tower) changed every 12 hours, from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m.  The day tour crew and the night tour crew had separate rooms, 4 bunks to a room.  Every 12 hours those rooms had to be cleaned.  Meals were served every six hours.  There was activity going on all over the rig all the time.  It was like being inside a giant ant farm, with worker ants coming and going at all hours, never ceasing, never winding down.

 

As a member of the galley crew, I was up at 5:00 a.m.  At 5:15 a.m. we went down one side of the hall, waking up the day tour crew.  This was done by opening the bunk room door, banging on the wall and flashing on the overhead lights.  I thought it was an awful way to wake anyone up, but the men seemed to be used to it.

 

Marge and Dimple would have both breakfast and dinner going at the same time, for as the 6 a.m. crew was waking up and wanting biscuits, bacon, and gravy for their breakfast, the 6 p.m. crew was coming in ready for their supper. 

 

True to his word, Wayne had given instructions that I was to experience every aspect of the galley crew.  First stop was cleaning the men’s change room.  Dimple had nailed it when she said some of the men were raised in a barn.  I followed Dot and Marcie into the change room, unaware of what was to come.  Cleaning the often unflushed toilets was my first chore.  Oh, gross.  Scrubbing down the shower stalls layered with grime, grit and grease was next. I would have been hard pressed to tell you which one was worse!  Gathering up used towels and filthy grimy sweaty coveralls for the laundry was also on the agenda.  Mopping the linoleum tile floor was last.  And then we were done with the change room until the next tour started. 

 

After the men’s change room was finished, we started on the bunk rooms.  Sheets were changed weekly, but the beds were made up daily.  Making up bunk beds is never easy, but the men often left little added surprises like Penthouse and Playboy magazines tucked under their pillows.  Dot and Marcie just ignored them.  I tried to do the same, but after making up the fifth or sixth bunk with the same s****y porn magazines left lying open to the centerfold, I was getting rather disgusted.  We swept the floors and moved on.

 

Management had private quarters on the second floor, and it was with a resigned sigh that I entered Jack’s room to clean it and make the bed.  Sure enough, as I flipped back the covers to straighten the sheets, there was another magazine.  But it was a TIME magazine.  I blinked in surprise.  And on the floor under the nightstand was a U.S. News and World Report.  Well, well, well, I thought, impressed.  The man can read.

 

That evening, at the 6 p.m. dinner, the main meal was Italian.  There was spaghetti and lasagna and the men were all falling in on the food like they were starving.  Dimple was behind the hot bar, dishing up the food, when Jack walked in.  I watched in amusement as she “dimpled” and smiled at Jack.

 

“Hi Jack!  Do you want me to fix you a hamburger or something?” 

 

What?  What was this special treatment?  It seemed that Jack did not like Italian food and Dimple knew that.  Sure enough, she hustled over to her skillet where she had a huge hamburger patty all made up and ready to fry for him.  Hmmm.  Interesting. I did notice that Jack merely gave Dimple a simple thank you when she brought his burger to him, and there didn’t seem to be any undercurrent between them, but still.  First Dot, and now Dimple.  What was the attraction to this particular man?

 

The day had been long and the work tiring.  I decided I was very grateful I was not a housekeeper as I fell into my bunk bed that night.  Grateful, too, that my seasickness seemed to have vanished, and I slept like the dead, gently rocking head to toe.

 

The next day I worked in the actual galley, which was much more to my liking.  I didn’t exactly enjoy bussing tables and washing dishes, but I did like being in the kitchens.  It was a vast improvement over cleaning the men’s change room!  The galley was an amazing place.  In addition to producing meals for 90 people four times a day, there were other duties such as menu planning, ordering groceries for a week at a time, and baking.  I have never seen such an assortment of cakes, pies, cookies and desserts, all of which were made fresh daily.  There was even homemade candy.  I watched as Marge dropped six cans of Eagle Brand milk into a large pot of boiling water to caramelize for the batch of millionaire candy she had promised to make “for the boys.” 

 

That afternoon I helped to peel and devein more jumbo shrimp than I have ever seen in my life.  It was seafood night on the rig.  In addition to the jumbo fried shrimp (which were superb), there was also crawfish etouffee served with boiled new potatoes and corn.  Many of the rig hands were from the gulf coast of Texas, Louisiana and Mississippi, and seafood night was extremely popular.  Spirits were high and I began to realize that these people were more like a family sitting down to dinner together every night than just a random group of rig hands.  The women in the gallery spoke of "their boys" and catered to them in a way that felt more like Mammaw’s kitchen than a company catered meal.

 

And I did notice that once again, Dimple cooked a large hamburger and fries for Jack.  Apparently the man liked hamburgers.  But to eat a hamburger instead of shrimp?  My mind reeled.  Who would do that?

 

Although I was scheduled to spend yet another day in the galley, the next morning Wayne told me that I was going to spend the day in the warehouse with Lucy instead.  He smiled a little as he said it, and I thought, “Oh, how nice.  He’s beginning to like me.”  HA!  There are all kinds of smiles, my friends, and Wayne’s smile was that of a crocodile.

 

Lucy, Lucy, Lucy.  I will never forget her.  There are people on this earth who never know when to shut up.  Lucy was one of them.  She talked from the moment she opened her eyes in the morning until she went to bed at night.  She was intelligent, to be sure, and organized and efficient, but the woman talked my ear off!  After the first two hours, I was ready to kill her.  By mid-afternoon, I just wanted to stick my head in a bucket and drown. 

 

It was about that time that Jack and McKay came into the warehouse.  Now it was Lucy’s job to keep track of and inventory all the tools and equipment used on the rig.  If you needed a new wrench or a spare part, you had to go through Lucy to get it.  As a result, the men were particularly careful to keep track of their tools.  Lucy had a huge metal desk, and she kept various stacks and piles of things on it, all waiting to be inventoried, or checked in, or checked out. 

 

At any rate, Jack and McKay (a mechanic) came in with a request for something or other and Lucy went off to find it.  I was sitting there beside her desk and I guess I must have looked a little shell-shocked.  Jack eyed me thoughtfully, then put a finger to his lips in a shushing motion as he and McKay quickly lifted several items from off of Lucy’s desk and slipped them into their pockets.  His blue eyes twinkled conspiratorially at me.  I perked up a bit.  What was this?

 

Lucy came back with the requested part, but Jack and McKay frowned and shook their heads.  No, that wouldn’t do.  Instead did she have such-and-such part?  Of course she did.  It was right here on . . . her . . . desk.  Wait a minute!  There began a frantic search over and under and all around her desk, with Lucy just clucking and scolding like a mad wet hen.  Jack and McKay were turning nearly purple with suppressed laughter, and somehow I was included in the joke with them.  I cannot tell you how much I needed that small bit of camaraderie and comic relief just then!  After three long days of virtual isolation, I finally felt a tiny bit of acceptance from the crew. 

 

The feeling of acceptance continued when I was invited to join the nightly poker game in the toolpusher’s quarters that night.  It seemed that I had passed some sort of test during my stint scrubbing toilets during the first couple of days and I was now being promoted to, if not an honored, at least a welcomed guest.  So even though my poker playing skills were not good, I took myself up to the second floor after dinner that night and knocked on the OIM’s door.

 

The poker crowd consisted of Wayne, Jack, McKay, a fellow called Steamboat, another couple of men whose names I can’t recall, and Lucy.  Oh, Lord.  Not more Lucy.  But Jack patted the chair next to him and I sat down to play. 

 

I will never understand the mysteries of attraction.  Why does one person attract us and another does not?  What is the mysterious pull that draws us ineluctably towards another human being?  I do not pretend to understand it, but I do know it exists.  As I sat there next to Jack, I felt that pull, that tug of attraction, and I knew he felt it too.  It was as if it was the two of us playing together against the rest of the table.  Nothing specific was said.  Nothing special was done.  We never even touched that night, save for a brief brushing of arms as we dealt cards around the table.  But there it was.  We were a team; it was us against them. 

 

The next four days were some of the happiest of my life.  Jack took charge of my education and we were together constantly.  I finally got out of the blasted galley and got to be outside.  The weather had turned and while it was still windy, it was warmer now.  I clomped happily around the rig in my steel-toed boots, following after Jack like an eager puppy.  He took me up and down, in and out, all over the rig.  I spent time on the drill floor, observing the roughnecks and the derrickmen and drillers.   I learned about ballast control and pumps and cranes and mud and sand blasting.  I met more of the men and I have to say, they were a gallant lot.  Rough around the edges and a little crude, but pure gentlemen underneath.  They all wanted to show me what they did and what their job entailed.  I studied and learned and wrote copious notes to myself every night.  I began to feel that I was earning their respect and I wasn’t just “that girl from the office” anymore. 

 

And then, one afternoon, Jack came up to me and said it was time that I learn how to ride the personnel basket.  The what?  Oh dear.

 

Have I mentioned that I am not fond of heights?  I’m not scared exactly, but climbing to high places is not an activity I enjoy.  Neither is swinging on a wire basket a hundred feet above the ocean.  In fact, the very thought makes me want to puke.  But let me explain.

 

Most of the time, the crew is transported to and from the rig by helicopter.  It’s fast and easy and by far the preferred method of crew change.  But when the weather is bad, when it’s raining or there is heavy fog, crew change happens by boat.  And the only way on and off the boat is by the personnel basket.

 

The personnel basket is a round donut shaped base with cargo netting stretched across the center of the hole and thick hemp ropes on the sides which gather up into a point above the donut, forming a pyramid shape.  The crane operator hooks onto the basket and swings it out over the side of the rig and lowers it down onto the waiting deck of the boat, bobbing up and down in the water below.  It’s a tricky business learning how to pick up and set down that basket, and it’s particularly tricky for the person riding the basket to learn how to jump off at just the right time to avoid falling or breaking an ankle.  And most of the time, when it IS necessary to ride the basket, the weather is not good, making the landing even more hazardous.

 

I fully understood the necessity of learning how to ride the personnel basket.  I further understood it was much preferable to learn to do so on a sunny afternoon rather than in the middle of a thunderstorm, but I still didn’t want to do it!  Jack was adamant though.  It was a safety issue.  I needed to learn.

 

So we went up on the heliport deck and Jack signaled the crane operator to start.  The basket was lowered onto the deck and Jack told me to hop on.  Hop?  I reluctantly took my place between two of the guide ropes, planting my feet on the rim of the donut and wrapping my arms around the ropes, taking a firm grip.  Jack made a swirling motion with his index finger that evidently meant, “take ‘er up!” and the basket jerked up off the deck, making me yelp just a bit in surprise.

 

For the first few minutes, it wasn’t so bad.  The basket rose steadily above the heli deck and I held on tight, forcing myself to keep my eyes open as we swayed in the wind.  Then Jack leaned out away from the basket, holding on with just one hand, and made some other motion to the crane operator.

 

Holy crap!  The basket swung out wide and there we were, dangling a hundred feet above the ocean!  I screamed, shut my eyes, and prayed I wouldn’t fall!  My God, I was wearing those damn lace-up, steel-toed boots.  If the fall didn’t kill me, I would surely drown before I could get those boots off!  They would pull me straight down to the bottom and a watery grave.

 

I finally realized through the roar of fear in my head that Jack was saying something to me.  In fact he was saying something quite urgently to me.  I squinted at him through one eye.  “What?” I gulped.

 

“Open your eyes!”   

 

I shook my head and shut my one eye again.  I had just caught a glimpse of the choppy waters far far down beneath us and panic rose in my chest. 

 

“Open your eyes,” he yelled.  “C’mon now!  Open ‘em!”

 

I didn’t want to, but then again, I had insisted on coming out here, hadn’t I?  We were just dangling there and it surely wasn’t going to get much worse than it already was.  Steeling myself, I opened my eyes and glanced around.

 

God-d****t!  I was suddenly so mad I forgot to be scared for a minute or two.  There, lined up all along the side rail of the rig, were the men, laughing and pointing at me and evidently enjoying the show!  I swung my head around and glared at Jack Marsden, who was also grinning, but trying really hard not to laugh. 

 

I was not amused.  I was scared to death and embarrassed and humiliated that all those men had watched me scream, just like a girl.  Any headway I might have made towards being accepted had just been dashed to bits, and it was all HIS fault!

 

Something of what I was feeling must have shown on my face, because Jack made another one of those hand signals and the big crane swung us back towards the rig. 

 

I wanted to keep glaring at him, but the sensation of swinging wildly so high up in the air was more than I could bear.  My eyes slammed shut again and my hands clenched the rough ropes so hard my knuckles were white.  I could feel the basket rapidly descending, but I couldn’t remember how I was supposed to jump off!  Jack was yelling at me to open my eyes again, but I just couldn’t do it.  The descent of the basket was making my stomach turn over and I was pretty sure I was either going to throw up, pee myself, or fall flat on my a*s.

 

“Katie!”  Jack’s urgent shout finally penetrated my panic. “Turn loose now!” 

 

I opened my eyes just as the basket touched down onto the metal decking, and somehow I managed to step back just at the right time.  I got both my heavy boots firmly planted on the steel deck, but my knees turned to jelly and I staggered a bit.

 

I must have looked pretty shaken because after days of not touching me, Jack was suddenly there by my side, helping me over to the bench that was just outside the radio room door.  I sat and gripped the edge of the cold metal bench with both hands, trying to control my breathing, which was pretty ragged, and willing myself NOT. TO. CRY.  I had survived it after all.  So what if I was the butt of some elaborate joke?  These guys played jokes all the time, didn’t they?  I had seen it. 

 

And then, the most amazing thing happened.  Jack knelt before me, and without a word, he began to undo those damn long laces on my boots.  He undid the first one, slipping the boot off my foot, and then started on the second one.  By that time I had recovered enough to make a token protest.

 

“No, don’t.  Please.  I can do it,” I said, but he just looked up at me with the most tender expression in his blue eyes and gave me a little wink.

 

“I’ll do it,” he said.  “You just breathe.”

 

So I let him.  I let him kneel before me, like some gallant knight of old, and remove my boots.  I could see he was sorry.  I could see he regretted making me so scared.  I wasn’t so sure he was sorry about lining up all the guys to watch me make a fool of myself, but at least they had all gone away and it was just the two of us now.  And I could see one more thing.  He was proud of me.  Whatever kind of test it was, I had just passed it with flying colors.

 

The tale of my adventure on the personnel basket was all over the rig that evening.  Several of the men made it a point to come up and clap me on the back or the shoulder and tell me how I had “done good.”  The women were all talking about it, too, telling tales of their own first rides on the basket and how terrifying it was.  They were all trying to make me feel better, and they did.  Up to a point.  But the one person I really wanted to make me feel better was Jack.  And he was nowhere around.

 

I didn’t know why, on that night of all nights, he had made himself absent, but I eventually wandered back to the women’s quarters after it was apparent he wasn’t going to make an appearance in the galley for supper.  I was feeling restless and I wasn’t ready for bed.  A couple of the women were working on a jigsaw puzzle at the table on the corner.  Dot was riding the ancient exercise bike, but I knew it was just to make her breasts sway under her tee shirt so the guys would walk by the door to catch a peek.  I sat on the ugly green Naugahyde couch and picked up a magazine.  Then there was a slight cough at the doorway and there stood Jack, looking at me. 

 

“I need to go down in the caissons and take some measurements,” he said.  “You want to go?  You haven’t been down there yet.”

 

Well, frankly, no.  I didn’t want to go clomping down the equivalent of four flights of stairs in my damn steel-toed boots and take measurements.  I didn’t want to do anything remotely connected with rig work at that moment.  I wanted to ask him why he had set me up to be the butt of some big joke that afternoon.  And I wanted to know why he had knelt down before me to take my boots off.

 

But privacy on an off-shore oil rig is a rare, rare thing.  And I was well aware of all the intently listening ears around us. 

 

“All right,” I said.  “But my boots are still at the radio room.”

 

We walked down the hall, past the galley, past the men’s lounge, and then suddenly, Jack stopped and said, “Have you been in the hospital yet?”

 

Hospital?  What hospital?

 

He opened a door and we stepped into a small room equipped with a single bed and some first aid equipment.  It was, for a wonder, completely empty.  Clean and sterile and totally devoid of people.

 

“What is this?  Some sort of sick bay?”  I asked.

 

But his answer didn’t really interest me.  What interested me was his blue eyes.  They could exude warmth, spark with mischief, and just that afternoon, they had shone gently, regarding me with tenderness and unmistakable male interest.  I looked at him and wondered if I had imagined that tender expression or if it had been real.

 

I realized that he had stopped talking and was looking at me, too.  He wasn’t a tall man and we were about the same height, but at that moment, he felt bigger and stronger than a mountain to me.  I was so drawn to him.  I wanted to be near him.  I wanted . . .

 

He kissed me.  His lips were soft and tender and the kiss was gentle.  We parted a bit and I looked at him, trying to read his thoughts.  He was watching me intently and we were drawn to one another like magnets.  He kissed me again, and this time it was more intent. 

 

Oh my. 

 

As if recollecting himself, and our surroundings, he pulled back, but not entirely.  His hands stayed on my waist and he pulled me over to a straight backed chair with him.  He sat down and pulled me onto his lap.  My eyes darted to the single bed on the far wall, but I knew we couldn’t possibly . . .

 

“I really do need to go down into the caissons tonight,” he said finally.  “Will you go with me?  It should be private down there.  We can talk.”

 

I looked at him, assessing his words, trying to divine the meaning behind them. 

 

“Before I go with you, I need to ask you one thing,” I said.  He nodded. 

 

“Are you . . . ? Jack, are you married?”  I didn’t know exactly how old Jack was, but he was a good deal older than me.  In his thirties at least.  And he was such a nice man.  Surely someone like him was already married or involved or . . . something.

 

“No,” he said, giving me a little half smile.  “No, I’m not married.  And there hasn’t been anyone - not in quite a while.  We’ll talk about that,” he promised.  He smiled again.  “What about you?”

 

I huffed a bit in amusement.  No, I wasn’t married.  I had been dating a little since I moved to Houston, but I didn’t have a boyfriend.

 

I shook my head.  “There’s no one,"  I said simply.

 

“Good,” he said, as if that settled it. 

 

I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant by that, but I was happy to hear it.  He was happy, too.  He pulled me in for another kiss, then shook his head as if reminding himself of who and where we were.  

“C’mon then.”

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

This is a true story, but the names have all been changed.