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.