I am in the middle of a pleasantly lazy night. We finished drilling our last section 2 days ago, and I'm in the blissful state of standing by. This, however, is purely by luck of the timing.
They pulled the entire drilling assembly out of the hole last night. Between one thing and another, the tools I am responsible for were not out of the hole until after my shift ended at 6am. I could have stayed up late and helped out, but the 3rd hand had gone to bed early the night before to wake up just for that purpose. Plus I was ready -- after a long night of doing nothing -- to go to bed and relax.
When I came on shift tonight at 6pm, they had finished processing all of the data and were halfway through uploading it to town. I had managed to miss just about all of the work.
A lot of the work done today I could probably do blindfolded I have done it so many times. But there's this tool that uses sound waves to analyze the formation which I have only seen a couple of times, and it would have been useful for me to get another practice round processing and analyzing its data. But did I really want to lose that much sleep? Goodness knows how long it would take, and I'd still have to cover the night shift as well.
Soon this will have to change. I am fast approaching my next promotion which involves being authorized to be the lead hand on a nuclear job. Nuclear cell managers are legally responsible for the radioactive source inside the tool, and are notoriously sleep-deprived. Being a cell manager in any case can be an exercise in insomnia if you have a poor night hand -- in such cases you need to stay awake as long as you possibly can and pray that your night hand doesn't mess it all up while you're asleep in your chair.
In the meantime I feel like I may be letting down my lead hand for not staying up to help out more today, and not intending to do so tomorrow. Our next shipment of tools will be arriving in the morning, a couple hours after I expect to go to bed. I also feel like I'm letting down myself for not making more of an effort to learn what I can about the sound-wave tool, but I suppose I don't feel so bad that I'm going to stay up 24 hours a day...
After 3 weeks offshore with so little downtime however, I consider myself entitled to making sleep a priority. I can just kid myself and say I'll work doubly as hard on my next hitch!
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
The Audit Results
We were supposed to have an audit last week. I am constantly hearing news stories of people getting punished/fired/incarcerated for inappropriate postings on the internet so I'm going to try to refrain from including much of the "office gossip" that was surrounding this audit, but I must mention that there was A LOT of it.
Let's just say it was suggested that our auditor had an agenda.
The audit was postponed because the heliport they were flying out of in Galveston, TX was covered in thunderstorms last week. We found out yesterday that they were planning on coming in today. Fortunately we were nearly ready last week, and only had a few minor items to check off before we'd be completely ready for today.
All in all, we did wonderfully. We scored a 91 or 92 out of 100 points, depending on how you count it. Most of the points we missed were because they quizzed our poor trainee on all sorts of standards and procedures not 30 minutes after he got off the helicopter.
I was the luckiest of all. I got to sleep through the entire thing! One of our managers had called me at the end of my night shift, and mentioned that it was raining again in Galveston so they might be delayed. I took that as my cue to not wait up for them, was asleep by 8am (they arrived at 8:30, darn! haha), and they left a good 3 hours before I was up and about this afternoon.
We finished drilling early this morning, so now I just have to wait until our tools are out of the hole before I have any more work to do. It's going to be an easy night, and I for one could use the rest.
Let's just say it was suggested that our auditor had an agenda.
The audit was postponed because the heliport they were flying out of in Galveston, TX was covered in thunderstorms last week. We found out yesterday that they were planning on coming in today. Fortunately we were nearly ready last week, and only had a few minor items to check off before we'd be completely ready for today.
All in all, we did wonderfully. We scored a 91 or 92 out of 100 points, depending on how you count it. Most of the points we missed were because they quizzed our poor trainee on all sorts of standards and procedures not 30 minutes after he got off the helicopter.
I was the luckiest of all. I got to sleep through the entire thing! One of our managers had called me at the end of my night shift, and mentioned that it was raining again in Galveston so they might be delayed. I took that as my cue to not wait up for them, was asleep by 8am (they arrived at 8:30, darn! haha), and they left a good 3 hours before I was up and about this afternoon.
We finished drilling early this morning, so now I just have to wait until our tools are out of the hole before I have any more work to do. It's going to be an easy night, and I for one could use the rest.
Friday, September 25, 2009
The Countdown Begins
I know when I'm going to leave the rig. This knowledge, although useful for planning my life (or what remnants of a life I have outside the Gulf of Mexico), serves no better purpose than to begin the interminable countdown until the final day.
I may be wrong, but the above paragraph seems to imply that I can't stand my job. There are times when I hate, loathe, and wish I never had my job, but for the most part I'm satisfied with where I am right now (for now--this job is not forever). But it's a fact of oilfield life that EVERYONE counts down till the day they get to go home. There are a few exceptions, and those mainly involve marital troubles which make work an escape from stress at home.
The magic day for me is October 6th, which will be four weeks and one day after I first arrived here. I'm so used to it that the length of time doesn't surprise me, but in an abstract way a month is quite a long time to be away from home.
That's a month's rent that I paid for my house to sit and be vacant. Granted, the rent is very reasonable and I love my house enough that it is well worth it. It's also a month's fees for the lawn guy to cut my grass that I didn't see. If I leave it until I get home from the rig, the neighbors will complain to my property managers -- I got quite a stern warning last summer when I was in Texas for 9 weeks. It's a month of car payments and insurance that went unutilized, internet bills and utility bills....
It's an odd life to be away from home for such long stretches. Last autumn was even worse, when I was off in Wyoming for 6 weeks at a time. After each hitch I came home for two weeks, but I spent a significant of that time in Boston and Philadelphia for fun and holidays.
In fact, on my upcoming time off I have a vacation scheduled to fly to Boston to meet with my MIT professors who are writing recommendation letters for my graduate school applications. This of course brings to mind another countdown; the countdown of months I still intend to work in the oilfield. That's right, months. By this time next year (barring my plans fail utterly), I will be off on my next great adventure and in another life I never expected I'd have.
In the meantime I have one week, three days, and six hours left on this piece of steel.
I may be wrong, but the above paragraph seems to imply that I can't stand my job. There are times when I hate, loathe, and wish I never had my job, but for the most part I'm satisfied with where I am right now (for now--this job is not forever). But it's a fact of oilfield life that EVERYONE counts down till the day they get to go home. There are a few exceptions, and those mainly involve marital troubles which make work an escape from stress at home.
The magic day for me is October 6th, which will be four weeks and one day after I first arrived here. I'm so used to it that the length of time doesn't surprise me, but in an abstract way a month is quite a long time to be away from home.
That's a month's rent that I paid for my house to sit and be vacant. Granted, the rent is very reasonable and I love my house enough that it is well worth it. It's also a month's fees for the lawn guy to cut my grass that I didn't see. If I leave it until I get home from the rig, the neighbors will complain to my property managers -- I got quite a stern warning last summer when I was in Texas for 9 weeks. It's a month of car payments and insurance that went unutilized, internet bills and utility bills....
It's an odd life to be away from home for such long stretches. Last autumn was even worse, when I was off in Wyoming for 6 weeks at a time. After each hitch I came home for two weeks, but I spent a significant of that time in Boston and Philadelphia for fun and holidays.
In fact, on my upcoming time off I have a vacation scheduled to fly to Boston to meet with my MIT professors who are writing recommendation letters for my graduate school applications. This of course brings to mind another countdown; the countdown of months I still intend to work in the oilfield. That's right, months. By this time next year (barring my plans fail utterly), I will be off on my next great adventure and in another life I never expected I'd have.
In the meantime I have one week, three days, and six hours left on this piece of steel.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Not about vegetables per se...
I've decided something about vegetables, or more specifically: salads. To be precise, I have decided something about salad dressings.
I don't like salad dressings.
This has been a realization many years in the making, but certainly not a full lifetime. As my mother loves to retell again and again, my favorite salads at age 9 were those composed of ham squares and croutons. When I eventually started eating green vegetables I found them bitter and unsavory, and salad dressing was necessary. Ranch was my first favorite for it was accessible to my young palate. Then raspberry vinaigrette for it tasted like candy. Then balsamic vinaigrette, for raspberry vinaigrette was far too sweet.
Then I went to Japan and discovered that their salad dressings were FAR better than anything I'd had in the US. My favorite became a soy based dressing with citrus juices, but I was unable to find an adequate replica for it in the US. I have since been subsisting on oil and vinegar, and then just vinegar...
But now I am done with dressing. I have always eschewed condiments to a greater degree than the next person, and even recently been using my dressings merely as a dip for the occasional leaf of lettuce; I barely make a dent in the cup. Now I give it up entirely, for I much prefer pleasant tasting salads comprised of my favorite vegetables plain than a pile of bitter and unpleasant pieces whose flavor must be masked. It is such a joy to me to remember just how sweet sweet peppers taste. They are so delicious; like candy! Who would want to ruin that with some noxious Creamy Italian?
So that's it. I'm done. No more dressing. Mom, Dad, Monique, and everyone else who might be serving me dinner someday: I'll be grabbing my serving before you toss the salad. Fair warning!
P.s. In a surprising note, I did find a Japanese-generic brand version of the heavenly soy-citrus dressing in the World Market of Lafayette, Louisiana, which oddly enough is primarily a furniture store. Goodness knows if I'm ever going to use it...
I don't like salad dressings.
This has been a realization many years in the making, but certainly not a full lifetime. As my mother loves to retell again and again, my favorite salads at age 9 were those composed of ham squares and croutons. When I eventually started eating green vegetables I found them bitter and unsavory, and salad dressing was necessary. Ranch was my first favorite for it was accessible to my young palate. Then raspberry vinaigrette for it tasted like candy. Then balsamic vinaigrette, for raspberry vinaigrette was far too sweet.
Then I went to Japan and discovered that their salad dressings were FAR better than anything I'd had in the US. My favorite became a soy based dressing with citrus juices, but I was unable to find an adequate replica for it in the US. I have since been subsisting on oil and vinegar, and then just vinegar...
But now I am done with dressing. I have always eschewed condiments to a greater degree than the next person, and even recently been using my dressings merely as a dip for the occasional leaf of lettuce; I barely make a dent in the cup. Now I give it up entirely, for I much prefer pleasant tasting salads comprised of my favorite vegetables plain than a pile of bitter and unpleasant pieces whose flavor must be masked. It is such a joy to me to remember just how sweet sweet peppers taste. They are so delicious; like candy! Who would want to ruin that with some noxious Creamy Italian?
So that's it. I'm done. No more dressing. Mom, Dad, Monique, and everyone else who might be serving me dinner someday: I'll be grabbing my serving before you toss the salad. Fair warning!
P.s. In a surprising note, I did find a Japanese-generic brand version of the heavenly soy-citrus dressing in the World Market of Lafayette, Louisiana, which oddly enough is primarily a furniture store. Goodness knows if I'm ever going to use it...
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Birding
When working offshore, one occasionally sees a stray bird taking a rest on some secluded part of the rig. Sometimes these birds have flown here themselves, but more often than not they hitched a ride on a boat that was heading for the rig. We have boats that come nearly every day shipping tools, mud, groceries, other supplies, and pretty much anything that won't fit on the helicopters.
Most birds I've seen were small little things, but today a much larger bird crossed my path and I couldn't resist getting out my camera and snapping a few pictures of it.
I tried to figure out what kind of bird it is, and in my extreme ignorance of ornithology I've probably gotten it wrong. But based on my 10 minutes of research online, I'm guessing it's either a Whimbrel or a Long-Billed Curlew.
We kept running into each other as I was trying to unplug from one of our tools. Here's some ore photos to enjoy:
Let me know if you can figure out which bird this one is better than I can!
Most birds I've seen were small little things, but today a much larger bird crossed my path and I couldn't resist getting out my camera and snapping a few pictures of it.
I tried to figure out what kind of bird it is, and in my extreme ignorance of ornithology I've probably gotten it wrong. But based on my 10 minutes of research online, I'm guessing it's either a Whimbrel or a Long-Billed Curlew.
We kept running into each other as I was trying to unplug from one of our tools. Here's some ore photos to enjoy:
Let me know if you can figure out which bird this one is better than I can!
Monday, September 21, 2009
The Worst Fire Drill Ever
While living in the dorms in college I was frequently roused at all hours of the day or night for fire alarms. Our smoke detectors were notoriously sensitive, and us college kids were notorious flame-inducers. They occurred randomly and without warning, at inconvenient hours and sometimes as often as 5 per week. But as with most things in the insular academic world, nothing will prepare you for there for the struggles you will face... in the REAL WORLD.
Of course many people will argue that the oilfield is hardly "the real world" but that's not the point. The point is that fire alarms, and more specifically fire drills, are an insidious part of my life now solely bent on robbing me of sleep and a stable circadian rhythm, and today was the worst of them all.
Most offshore rigs have some sort of fire drill policy in place. My first offshore rig, the humble little barge rig that was somehow placed offshore instead of in the benign inland waters, had simple, not quite-weekly affairs where we mustered in the galley with our lifejackets and checked our name off on a clipboard.
My next rig, the large, haunted rig in service to the Queen had very regular fire drills. There we first mustered to the galley with our hard hats and lifejackets where pre-appointed "safety officers" would do a roll call of their group like elementary school teachers on a field trip. Then we would muster again, outside by the lifeboats after donning our steel-toed boots (no boots in the living quarters!) and stand in neat, but cramped queues next to our assigned lifeboat while our 3rd grade teachers would check us off on their clipboards again.
I only was involved in one fire drill on that monster rig back in August. It was a quick, organized affair that split everyone up into muster stations spread far and wide. I was assigned to the gym, which was just down the hall from my room. We stood around while the safety officers discussed absentees on a walkie-talkie, and were dismissed after fifteen minutes.
The problem with most of these fire drills is the timing. A lot of the bigger rigs have the drill crews (the manual laborers) work shifts from 12-12, but the 3rd-party hands traditionally work 6-6. The fire drills, organized by the drilling company, are therefore naturally scheduled to accommodate the drill crews and typically occur at 1pm. Which, when I'm working as a night hand, occurs right in the middle of my sleep.
When I first arrived on this rig, I was informed that they had just had a fire drill that day. Thank goodness! I have a week's reprieve! The following week, having heard rumors that there might be a fire drill sometime Sunday, I found myself awakened at 10am by the blaring of the siren call that announced our drill. Moments later a man pounded on my door, opened it, and in a voice thick with urgency announced "Fire drill! Get to your muster station NOW!" as if the five seconds it had taken me to sit upright were inexcusable. I brushed off the confusion of harshly interrupted sleep, threw my coveralls on over my pajamas, and tied my hair back as I walked up the stairs to get to my boots and hard had. As I neared the second floor, a general announcement went off declaring that it was only an alarm test, and no mustering was required. I later submitted a report about it to my company, which is more to fill my quota for safety reports for the year than in hopes of any results; my company has no control over the sorts of safety drills our clients perform.
I had heard some rumors that there was going to be another fire drill yesterday. It had been two weeks since the last drill, but I was hoping it would only be an alarm test like last week's. Alas, no. I was awoken again at 10:15am and told by the P.A. system to report to my muster station. Here they had a row of cards, almost like the old office punchcard system, which had our names on them. We had to flip them over to announce our presence. One side was red, and when you flipped it, the reverse side showed blue.
Then I stood in line. Boy, did I ever stand in line. It was midmorning, in the Louisiana sun, not quite the end of summer, and they had us stand in line with no shade. I was wearing my coveralls over my pajamas. I had luckily had the foresight to remove the sweatshirt I sleep in to offset the ridiculously strong air-conditioning, but I was still sweating in my long sleeves and two layers of (thin) long pants. The heat, my clothes, and the oppressive lifejacket I wore all combined to have sweat dripping out of every pore in my body.
And they kept us in line. Did I mention that we were standing in the sun? There was no breeze. The sea was a calm, glassy surface which rippled more from the vibrations of the drilling rig than any air circulation that morning.
And we kept standing in line. I started to feel a bit faint, and I had to go to the bathroom. But we couldn't leave muster during the drill unless we were essential personnel to the drilling operation. They drill 24 hrs a day, without exception, and since I was off-shift, I was definitely non-essential.
All told we were out there for 45 minutes in direct sunlight in what I estimate to be 90-degree weather. I had halfway thought I might faint out there, and I didn't, but when I returned to my room I saw my face was an alarmingly pale shade and my hands started to shake. So I went to the galley and grabbed a tall glass of watered-down juice and drank it fast.
I then read for hours being unable to get to sleep, then skipped the 5:30pm meeting and showed up 20 minutes late for my 6pm shift. I later asked the Safety Representative if the drills were normally that long. He hmmed and said they were sometimes closer to 30 minutes.
New rule: in case of fire drill, always hydrate first.
Of course many people will argue that the oilfield is hardly "the real world" but that's not the point. The point is that fire alarms, and more specifically fire drills, are an insidious part of my life now solely bent on robbing me of sleep and a stable circadian rhythm, and today was the worst of them all.
Most offshore rigs have some sort of fire drill policy in place. My first offshore rig, the humble little barge rig that was somehow placed offshore instead of in the benign inland waters, had simple, not quite-weekly affairs where we mustered in the galley with our lifejackets and checked our name off on a clipboard.
My next rig, the large, haunted rig in service to the Queen had very regular fire drills. There we first mustered to the galley with our hard hats and lifejackets where pre-appointed "safety officers" would do a roll call of their group like elementary school teachers on a field trip. Then we would muster again, outside by the lifeboats after donning our steel-toed boots (no boots in the living quarters!) and stand in neat, but cramped queues next to our assigned lifeboat while our 3rd grade teachers would check us off on their clipboards again.
I only was involved in one fire drill on that monster rig back in August. It was a quick, organized affair that split everyone up into muster stations spread far and wide. I was assigned to the gym, which was just down the hall from my room. We stood around while the safety officers discussed absentees on a walkie-talkie, and were dismissed after fifteen minutes.
The problem with most of these fire drills is the timing. A lot of the bigger rigs have the drill crews (the manual laborers) work shifts from 12-12, but the 3rd-party hands traditionally work 6-6. The fire drills, organized by the drilling company, are therefore naturally scheduled to accommodate the drill crews and typically occur at 1pm. Which, when I'm working as a night hand, occurs right in the middle of my sleep.
When I first arrived on this rig, I was informed that they had just had a fire drill that day. Thank goodness! I have a week's reprieve! The following week, having heard rumors that there might be a fire drill sometime Sunday, I found myself awakened at 10am by the blaring of the siren call that announced our drill. Moments later a man pounded on my door, opened it, and in a voice thick with urgency announced "Fire drill! Get to your muster station NOW!" as if the five seconds it had taken me to sit upright were inexcusable. I brushed off the confusion of harshly interrupted sleep, threw my coveralls on over my pajamas, and tied my hair back as I walked up the stairs to get to my boots and hard had. As I neared the second floor, a general announcement went off declaring that it was only an alarm test, and no mustering was required. I later submitted a report about it to my company, which is more to fill my quota for safety reports for the year than in hopes of any results; my company has no control over the sorts of safety drills our clients perform.
I had heard some rumors that there was going to be another fire drill yesterday. It had been two weeks since the last drill, but I was hoping it would only be an alarm test like last week's. Alas, no. I was awoken again at 10:15am and told by the P.A. system to report to my muster station. Here they had a row of cards, almost like the old office punchcard system, which had our names on them. We had to flip them over to announce our presence. One side was red, and when you flipped it, the reverse side showed blue.
Then I stood in line. Boy, did I ever stand in line. It was midmorning, in the Louisiana sun, not quite the end of summer, and they had us stand in line with no shade. I was wearing my coveralls over my pajamas. I had luckily had the foresight to remove the sweatshirt I sleep in to offset the ridiculously strong air-conditioning, but I was still sweating in my long sleeves and two layers of (thin) long pants. The heat, my clothes, and the oppressive lifejacket I wore all combined to have sweat dripping out of every pore in my body.
And they kept us in line. Did I mention that we were standing in the sun? There was no breeze. The sea was a calm, glassy surface which rippled more from the vibrations of the drilling rig than any air circulation that morning.
And we kept standing in line. I started to feel a bit faint, and I had to go to the bathroom. But we couldn't leave muster during the drill unless we were essential personnel to the drilling operation. They drill 24 hrs a day, without exception, and since I was off-shift, I was definitely non-essential.
All told we were out there for 45 minutes in direct sunlight in what I estimate to be 90-degree weather. I had halfway thought I might faint out there, and I didn't, but when I returned to my room I saw my face was an alarmingly pale shade and my hands started to shake. So I went to the galley and grabbed a tall glass of watered-down juice and drank it fast.
I then read for hours being unable to get to sleep, then skipped the 5:30pm meeting and showed up 20 minutes late for my 6pm shift. I later asked the Safety Representative if the drills were normally that long. He hmmed and said they were sometimes closer to 30 minutes.
New rule: in case of fire drill, always hydrate first.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Foot-Dragging Days
I haven't written anything lately because I've been in a bad mood ever since we finished our first run of drilling, or rather ever since I was obliged to start working again after being on standby immediately following our first run of drilling. I think I was just so physically exhausted after rigging up, that when we finished drilling last Sunday I was so relieved to have a couple days off that the abrupt foreshortening of my standby time threw me into some terrible blue devils.
Since then it's been a struggle to do some of the most mundane tasks, which hasn't made the necessary complex troubleshooting any easier either. Luckily there are a couple of new people out here (my former lead hand was sent home with pink eye, and our third hand was replaced by an expert on the higher-tier tool we're running this section), and they are more than willing to help out with that.
I'm gradually getting myself going again, and now that we're back to drilling this is a lot easier. There's something comforting about the drill bit rotating thousands of feet below and the constant stream of binary data transmitted through the drilling mud that enables me to find my working rhythm; my natural frequency of duty. Productivity is becoming less and less of a struggle these days.
But on Wednesday we have an audit scheduled. One of our managers is apparently hitching a ride on the oil company's swanky helicopter they're flying out here for a day-trip to look over the rig. She thought it would be "fun", and suggested doing an audit on our Measurements While Drilling operations out here in order to justify coming along with them. This means doing a complete inventory of all our tools, filling out endless forms, updating all our computers and making sure that this "chaos" that erupts from the natural order of things out here can be organized into a neat and tidy bundle of information.
I guess it's time to find some more motivation from somewhere...
Maybe tomorrow.
Since then it's been a struggle to do some of the most mundane tasks, which hasn't made the necessary complex troubleshooting any easier either. Luckily there are a couple of new people out here (my former lead hand was sent home with pink eye, and our third hand was replaced by an expert on the higher-tier tool we're running this section), and they are more than willing to help out with that.
I'm gradually getting myself going again, and now that we're back to drilling this is a lot easier. There's something comforting about the drill bit rotating thousands of feet below and the constant stream of binary data transmitted through the drilling mud that enables me to find my working rhythm; my natural frequency of duty. Productivity is becoming less and less of a struggle these days.
But on Wednesday we have an audit scheduled. One of our managers is apparently hitching a ride on the oil company's swanky helicopter they're flying out here for a day-trip to look over the rig. She thought it would be "fun", and suggested doing an audit on our Measurements While Drilling operations out here in order to justify coming along with them. This means doing a complete inventory of all our tools, filling out endless forms, updating all our computers and making sure that this "chaos" that erupts from the natural order of things out here can be organized into a neat and tidy bundle of information.
I guess it's time to find some more motivation from somewhere...
Maybe tomorrow.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
I had it coming
There is an obstacle that all MWD Field Engineers must overcome at one point or another in their jobs. Some of them may have to overcome this obstacle nearly every week. Some almost never. But it is a hurdle that is looked upon with dread and a deep groan of despair.
It is the "rig up".
Rigging up involves taking a box full of cables and miscellaneous sensors, and another box full of computers, and installing them all throughout the messy, noisy, dangerous environment of the rig and making them all work in perfect harmony. The goal is to achieve something akin to placing electrodes on a person to monitor their vital signs. With this setup, we have our fingers on the pulse points of the rig's operations, and are prepared to do our jobs.
My very first day in the field started late at night in Arkansas. I arrived to a rig through a torrential downpour and I was to help rig up for the job. The jobs in Arkansas use considerably fewer sensors and much less complicated equipment, but it was enough to get me soaked through and yet not enough to teach me anything useful.
I have been in the highly enviable position of having worked in the field for a year and a half without having to participate in any offshore rig ups. Until now.
I was the first one sent on this job, and I arrived on the rig Monday night. With the help of the rig's electrician, I accomplished the first major task: I got power to our unit (actually the electrician did all the work, and I just unlocked the door).
Tuesday morning my cell manager arrived, and we began our rig up in earnest. What ensued was a series of days where I averaged about 18 hours of work and 5 hours of sleep per day, and my cell manager considerably more and less, respectively. And this was not "stare at computer screens and type until your eyes can't focus and your wrists can't bend". This was running 300ft lengths of cabling through a complicated series of nooks and crannies. This was installing 50lb sensors 150ft above the rig floor. This was learning an unfamiliar electrical system to literally wire ourselves into the rig itself. It was checking and double checking each connection so that we wouldn't miss a single piece of information while we were drilling. It was sweaty, backbreaking, mind-numbing work that went on for days, and isn't even finished yet (all I have left now, though, is to just rearrange some of my cables to make them look neater).
There was a report written by a crew who had previously rigged up here, and their assessment was that it would take about 4 days for a crew of 4 people to complete the entire process at a reasonable pace. We had 2 1/2 days, and our third crew member wasn't able to arrive until our final half day. When it was all over I slept for 15 hour straight and showed up early to my next shift so that my cell manager could go ahead and do the exact same thing.
Theoretically these cables and sensors should remain in place for up to the next five years. Now our only hope is that the client doesn't run us off the rig and force us to rig down everything we've just finished putting up!
It is the "rig up".
Rigging up involves taking a box full of cables and miscellaneous sensors, and another box full of computers, and installing them all throughout the messy, noisy, dangerous environment of the rig and making them all work in perfect harmony. The goal is to achieve something akin to placing electrodes on a person to monitor their vital signs. With this setup, we have our fingers on the pulse points of the rig's operations, and are prepared to do our jobs.
My very first day in the field started late at night in Arkansas. I arrived to a rig through a torrential downpour and I was to help rig up for the job. The jobs in Arkansas use considerably fewer sensors and much less complicated equipment, but it was enough to get me soaked through and yet not enough to teach me anything useful.
I have been in the highly enviable position of having worked in the field for a year and a half without having to participate in any offshore rig ups. Until now.
I was the first one sent on this job, and I arrived on the rig Monday night. With the help of the rig's electrician, I accomplished the first major task: I got power to our unit (actually the electrician did all the work, and I just unlocked the door).
Tuesday morning my cell manager arrived, and we began our rig up in earnest. What ensued was a series of days where I averaged about 18 hours of work and 5 hours of sleep per day, and my cell manager considerably more and less, respectively. And this was not "stare at computer screens and type until your eyes can't focus and your wrists can't bend". This was running 300ft lengths of cabling through a complicated series of nooks and crannies. This was installing 50lb sensors 150ft above the rig floor. This was learning an unfamiliar electrical system to literally wire ourselves into the rig itself. It was checking and double checking each connection so that we wouldn't miss a single piece of information while we were drilling. It was sweaty, backbreaking, mind-numbing work that went on for days, and isn't even finished yet (all I have left now, though, is to just rearrange some of my cables to make them look neater).
There was a report written by a crew who had previously rigged up here, and their assessment was that it would take about 4 days for a crew of 4 people to complete the entire process at a reasonable pace. We had 2 1/2 days, and our third crew member wasn't able to arrive until our final half day. When it was all over I slept for 15 hour straight and showed up early to my next shift so that my cell manager could go ahead and do the exact same thing.
Theoretically these cables and sensors should remain in place for up to the next five years. Now our only hope is that the client doesn't run us off the rig and force us to rig down everything we've just finished putting up!
Friday, September 11, 2009
The Elevator Story
I promised I would later talk about how I get trapped in the elevator. Spoiler alert! I got trapped, and I got out. (Sorry to ruin the suspense)
This is the first rig I've ever been to that has an elevator. I've heard of rigs having elevators in the living quarters, but this elevator went up the derrick! This was extremely useful for us while we were rigging up all our sensors and equipment, because I was taking multiple trips daily to parts of the derrick that were 100-150 feet above the rig floor, and I was working hard enough as it was without having to climb hundreds more steps each day in the fulfillment of my duties.
This elevator, like many mechanical moving parts on a rig, is filthy, utilitarian, and half of its components have ceased to work, but it still goes up and down... most of the time.
I had ridden in this elevator many times before, at points crammed in with two companions and armfuls of wires and tools. My very first time riding by myself, I got in, pressed the button, saw its light flash on, and waited. Nothing happened. The light kept flashing on the button as if to say "Don't worry, we'll get there" but to no avail. I tried pressing it again. I tried pressing other buttons. I tried to open the doors. No luck. I was locked inside and not going anywhere. I tried the phone, which I already knew was dead. Sure enough, it was still dead.
I had had enough foresight to be sure multiple people knew where I was intending to go, so it seemed like only a matter of time before I was found. Could I rescue myself? Perhaps. There was a vent and an active fan, so I was in no forseeable danger, and I wasn't feeling particularly adventurous, so for the meantime I stared out to sea and contemplated life. And I took this picture:
Eventually I thought that I might want to be a bit more proactive about getting myself out of there and back to work. We still had plenty of rigging up left to do, and I wasn't going to get out of my share of it so easily. I struggled with my distaste to call attention to myself and after about three agonizing minutes of self-deliberation, I punched in the "Alarm" button. Guess what happened! Nothing.
Then I noticed something that looked remarkably like a trap door on the ceiling. It had a handle which I attempted to unlatch, but it seemed a bit stuck. I postponed making further attempts at turning it until after I'd enjoyed my vacation a bit longer.
When the sun set, I knew I had to stop shilly-shallying. I resolutely ignored the fact that I really didn't want to climb out of the elevator through the uncomfortably small-looking trapped door with the awkwardly placed escape ladder, screwed up my courage and my strength, and twisted the handle to open. It turned. I pushed up on the door, and it opened a few inches.
Then my bravado failed me and I let the trap door close again. But at that very moment my coworker, having expected a phone call from me ages ago, showed up trying to find out where I had gone. I gesticulated to him through the tiny window with the thick metal grating, and before I knew it he had effortlessly slid the door open to see my dumbfounded face.
The door had been locked. I had fruitlessly attempted to force it open dozens of times, and yet here he is opening it and looking at me as if I'm the biggest slowtop of all history. As it turns out, unlatching the escape hatch cancels all buttons pressed and unlocks the doors. What a joke.
I stewed in the elevator for a total of somewhere around 30-40 minutes before I escaped, and then promptly re-entered it and rode up 90 feet in the derrick to fix a troublesome sensor. It was a small adventure; a small vacation from the drudgery of rigging up. I enjoyed it.
This is the first rig I've ever been to that has an elevator. I've heard of rigs having elevators in the living quarters, but this elevator went up the derrick! This was extremely useful for us while we were rigging up all our sensors and equipment, because I was taking multiple trips daily to parts of the derrick that were 100-150 feet above the rig floor, and I was working hard enough as it was without having to climb hundreds more steps each day in the fulfillment of my duties.
This elevator, like many mechanical moving parts on a rig, is filthy, utilitarian, and half of its components have ceased to work, but it still goes up and down... most of the time.
I had ridden in this elevator many times before, at points crammed in with two companions and armfuls of wires and tools. My very first time riding by myself, I got in, pressed the button, saw its light flash on, and waited. Nothing happened. The light kept flashing on the button as if to say "Don't worry, we'll get there" but to no avail. I tried pressing it again. I tried pressing other buttons. I tried to open the doors. No luck. I was locked inside and not going anywhere. I tried the phone, which I already knew was dead. Sure enough, it was still dead.
I had had enough foresight to be sure multiple people knew where I was intending to go, so it seemed like only a matter of time before I was found. Could I rescue myself? Perhaps. There was a vent and an active fan, so I was in no forseeable danger, and I wasn't feeling particularly adventurous, so for the meantime I stared out to sea and contemplated life. And I took this picture:
Eventually I thought that I might want to be a bit more proactive about getting myself out of there and back to work. We still had plenty of rigging up left to do, and I wasn't going to get out of my share of it so easily. I struggled with my distaste to call attention to myself and after about three agonizing minutes of self-deliberation, I punched in the "Alarm" button. Guess what happened! Nothing.
Then I noticed something that looked remarkably like a trap door on the ceiling. It had a handle which I attempted to unlatch, but it seemed a bit stuck. I postponed making further attempts at turning it until after I'd enjoyed my vacation a bit longer.
When the sun set, I knew I had to stop shilly-shallying. I resolutely ignored the fact that I really didn't want to climb out of the elevator through the uncomfortably small-looking trapped door with the awkwardly placed escape ladder, screwed up my courage and my strength, and twisted the handle to open. It turned. I pushed up on the door, and it opened a few inches.
Then my bravado failed me and I let the trap door close again. But at that very moment my coworker, having expected a phone call from me ages ago, showed up trying to find out where I had gone. I gesticulated to him through the tiny window with the thick metal grating, and before I knew it he had effortlessly slid the door open to see my dumbfounded face.
The door had been locked. I had fruitlessly attempted to force it open dozens of times, and yet here he is opening it and looking at me as if I'm the biggest slowtop of all history. As it turns out, unlatching the escape hatch cancels all buttons pressed and unlocks the doors. What a joke.
I stewed in the elevator for a total of somewhere around 30-40 minutes before I escaped, and then promptly re-entered it and rode up 90 feet in the derrick to fix a troublesome sensor. It was a small adventure; a small vacation from the drudgery of rigging up. I enjoyed it.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Showbiz
Fun fact: the rig I am on is where the opening scene of "Armageddon" was filmed. This is not just unsubstantiated rumor (like the one where my previous rig was haunted by the ghosts of the Piper Alpha disaster), but actual documented truth.
The rig has undergone many changes since then, but it's fun to know that the ghosts(??) of Bruce Willis, Steve Buscemi, Ben Affleck and Liv Tyler are here with me.
Here is an interesting article about it for your edification and pleasure:
The rig has undergone many changes since then, but it's fun to know that the ghosts(??) of Bruce Willis, Steve Buscemi, Ben Affleck and Liv Tyler are here with me.
Here is an interesting article about it for your edification and pleasure:
Broadening Horizons
Yikes! I've been on the rig now for 4 days and I've been soooo ridiculously busy with work that I haven't had time to post anything interesting, like how I got trapped in an elevator yesterday! (More on that later)
But I would like to announce that I have a new favorite vegetable! It's not my all-time favorite, which is broccoli, but it has been added to the "list of favorites".
Raw Zucchini!!!
I only partially like cooked zucchini. It never seemed right to me. The salad bar offered by this rig has been stocking it this week, and I adoooore it! The salad bar seems a slight misnomer, as it is only half comprised of vegetables and the other half by things like tuna salad, cheese, etc.
But it has opened me up to new pleasures, and for that it will be a salad bar I will always remember.
But I would like to announce that I have a new favorite vegetable! It's not my all-time favorite, which is broccoli, but it has been added to the "list of favorites".
Raw Zucchini!!!
I only partially like cooked zucchini. It never seemed right to me. The salad bar offered by this rig has been stocking it this week, and I adoooore it! The salad bar seems a slight misnomer, as it is only half comprised of vegetables and the other half by things like tuna salad, cheese, etc.
But it has opened me up to new pleasures, and for that it will be a salad bar I will always remember.
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