Every now & then a board member will inquire about making a living as a diver. I have responded to such inquiry in the past with a mixture of hard facts & a liberal dose of reality. Additionally, I have penned a number of stories from my days as a deepsea vagabond with the intent to entertain & to provide some insight into a rather unique lifestyle.
Previous stories involved romantic locales & a wee dram of daring-do, but they by no means paint the complete picture. A deepsea diving career has its share of less-than-exotic tales, & once upon a dive day I had one of my very own...
Twas the summer of 82', & I was working as a diver in support of offshore oilfield drilling operations in the Beaufort Sea. A typical crew rotation would have me offshore 4-6 weeks at a time, sometimes longer. Time ashore was never guarenteed, though we hoped for a week to ten days; invariably, something would go wrong & all hands would be called back to deal with the problem(s).
I had been ashore for 2 days after a 7 week stint on the drillship when early one morning I dropped by my employers office to pick up a paycheck. Dressed in my "soon to be out on the town" finery, I had a full day of running around to do prior to hooking up with a certain sweet barmaid who'd promised to make me forget I was a fish.
With a spring in my step & a song on my lips I sashayed in to grab my check & run. After some quick hello's to the guys in the shop I made a bee-line for the door & was more than halfway to freedom when the familiar boom of my boss's voice echoed like a death-knell in my ears:
"Dan, come on in here a minute!" he bellowed.
"Can't boss, gotta run..." I said.
"Not so fast, Diver...got a little job for you" he commanded.
No good could come of this.
The kick about being a working diver is understanding when work calls...you work; no if's, an's or butt's. Say no, & your name goes to the bottom of the call-out list, an unenviable & poverty-inducing place to be.
"C'mon Boss, I'm only 2 days ashore & time is short..." I pleaded.
" No problem, just a quick jump & you'll be back in your disco-suit & on your way!" he promised.
"But I don't have my gear with me" I tried.
"No problem, the boys out back'll fix you up...have a good dive!"
Now understand, divers love to set you up at every opportunity, so it was unnerving to find the boys had all the gear for the job loaded out & ready to roll when I trudged dejectedly back into the shop. "Not to worry mate, got her all ready to go!" they chimed. They seemed altogether too happy. Warning bells were ringing in my brain as we sped off down the highway.
We were off on a "day-job". You never knew what someone would want you to do from one day to the next on these call-out jobs. Most of them were simple: recovery, inspection etc. etc., but every now & then the request was somewhat bizzare.
"So, what job's so damn important as to delay my date with destiny" I asked morosely. "Something so complex, only a man of your caliber can handle it, Danny-boy" the tender said with a Cheshire Cat grin.
This little game continued on until the truck wheeled off the highway & pulled into an imposing looking factory; the sign overhead read: "Acme Chicken Processors." A fowl breeze blew as we went through the gate & on into an area notable for the acres of aeration ponds. An official-looking chap in a white hardhat waved us over to where he stood beside one of the steaming, foamy ponds.
"Glad ta see ya boys, got a little problem for ya!" he said.
" (GAG!) Yea, great to (GAG!) be here...whats up?" I almost retched the words out.
"One of the effluent aerators broke its' mounting & sank to the bottom of the pond" he stated.
Apparently, the byproducts of chicken processing are pumped to a system of holding ponds, where a series of aerating machines mounted on platforms continously churn the entrail-laden waters to promote the decomposition of the fowl stew.
My job...find the sunken aerator & tie a line to it.
Piece of cake.
The lads were busily setting up the gear as I looked around for my drysuit. "Gee, all the drybags are booked out on jobs" the tender snickered. He pointed to an old, dusty sack off in the corner of the truck. "Nothin left but a couple of Yoke's, but don't worry, I grabbed you the best one!". Another snicker.
"Yoke" is short for "Yokahama diving dress"; a precursor to the modern drysuit, they were originally designed for use with heavy gear ( breastplate/helmet ). We had retrofitted them with a conventional neck seal to allow for use with our lightweight helmet, the "Rat Hat". Rugged & durable, these suits were ideal for the abuses of construction diving, but over the years were put aside for the more modern dress. Regretably, these suits no longer received regular maintenance...
To my dismay, the moment I opened the patched & slightly moldy bag, several obese moths emerged from its' dark recesses & lumbered off into the sky. I yanked the tired old suit out & gave it the once over, all the while cursing my luck in a whispered stream of fowl obsenities.
A short while later I was suited up & stood, with 1/2" poly line in hand, at the edge of the roiling, bubbly syrup of aerated chicken goo. No sweat, just a walk down a gentle slope to 30', keep going outward for about 40', a quick circle search, sling the load & I'm outta here, I thought to myself as I took those first tentative steps into the mire. I may as well have been walking on oiled ice! Down on me arse I went & slid like a greased pig till I piled up in a boil of slithering entrails.
No problem. Back on my feet, get my bearings & head out. I had travelled maybe 10' when I first sensed the influx of warm, sludgy semi-fluids seeping into my antiquated diving dress. It was coming down my neck, my back, front, & both legs. I quickened my pace, queasy with the thought of what hideous mutant organisms might dwell in this retched avian scum pond! My mind conjured images of spiny, scaled critters with horny bird feet, patiently probing my orifices for access.
And then....the aerator!! Tie the knot! Leaving bottom! I would have ran back had my suit not been flooded up to my ribs! Never had a diver so sodden with cluck muck returned to the land of disenfectant as fast as I did that day!
One hour a 17 showers later, I was pronounced fit to join the human race once more. My last act before leaving that fowl place was to bottle some effluent, which, after brewing for several days in the sun, I poured gingerly into my tender's workboots.
As I waited in the lobby for my lovely lady, I ruminated over my days work. What can you do but chuckle at lifes little sidetrips? I was still chuckling as my maiden emerged from the elevator:
"Hi baby! thank god you're hear...I'm near to starving!" she gushed.
" What shall it be, my little wallflower...filet mingon'? lobster thermadore?...brisket du Daniel hhmmmmmm??" I murmured.
"Sounds good but.......HOW ABOUT CHICKEN!!"
Finger lickin good indeed!
D.S.D.
Previous stories involved romantic locales & a wee dram of daring-do, but they by no means paint the complete picture. A deepsea diving career has its share of less-than-exotic tales, & once upon a dive day I had one of my very own...
Twas the summer of 82', & I was working as a diver in support of offshore oilfield drilling operations in the Beaufort Sea. A typical crew rotation would have me offshore 4-6 weeks at a time, sometimes longer. Time ashore was never guarenteed, though we hoped for a week to ten days; invariably, something would go wrong & all hands would be called back to deal with the problem(s).
I had been ashore for 2 days after a 7 week stint on the drillship when early one morning I dropped by my employers office to pick up a paycheck. Dressed in my "soon to be out on the town" finery, I had a full day of running around to do prior to hooking up with a certain sweet barmaid who'd promised to make me forget I was a fish.
With a spring in my step & a song on my lips I sashayed in to grab my check & run. After some quick hello's to the guys in the shop I made a bee-line for the door & was more than halfway to freedom when the familiar boom of my boss's voice echoed like a death-knell in my ears:
"Dan, come on in here a minute!" he bellowed.
"Can't boss, gotta run..." I said.
"Not so fast, Diver...got a little job for you" he commanded.
No good could come of this.
The kick about being a working diver is understanding when work calls...you work; no if's, an's or butt's. Say no, & your name goes to the bottom of the call-out list, an unenviable & poverty-inducing place to be.
"C'mon Boss, I'm only 2 days ashore & time is short..." I pleaded.
" No problem, just a quick jump & you'll be back in your disco-suit & on your way!" he promised.
"But I don't have my gear with me" I tried.
"No problem, the boys out back'll fix you up...have a good dive!"
Now understand, divers love to set you up at every opportunity, so it was unnerving to find the boys had all the gear for the job loaded out & ready to roll when I trudged dejectedly back into the shop. "Not to worry mate, got her all ready to go!" they chimed. They seemed altogether too happy. Warning bells were ringing in my brain as we sped off down the highway.
We were off on a "day-job". You never knew what someone would want you to do from one day to the next on these call-out jobs. Most of them were simple: recovery, inspection etc. etc., but every now & then the request was somewhat bizzare.
"So, what job's so damn important as to delay my date with destiny" I asked morosely. "Something so complex, only a man of your caliber can handle it, Danny-boy" the tender said with a Cheshire Cat grin.
This little game continued on until the truck wheeled off the highway & pulled into an imposing looking factory; the sign overhead read: "Acme Chicken Processors." A fowl breeze blew as we went through the gate & on into an area notable for the acres of aeration ponds. An official-looking chap in a white hardhat waved us over to where he stood beside one of the steaming, foamy ponds.
"Glad ta see ya boys, got a little problem for ya!" he said.
" (GAG!) Yea, great to (GAG!) be here...whats up?" I almost retched the words out.
"One of the effluent aerators broke its' mounting & sank to the bottom of the pond" he stated.
Apparently, the byproducts of chicken processing are pumped to a system of holding ponds, where a series of aerating machines mounted on platforms continously churn the entrail-laden waters to promote the decomposition of the fowl stew.
My job...find the sunken aerator & tie a line to it.
Piece of cake.
The lads were busily setting up the gear as I looked around for my drysuit. "Gee, all the drybags are booked out on jobs" the tender snickered. He pointed to an old, dusty sack off in the corner of the truck. "Nothin left but a couple of Yoke's, but don't worry, I grabbed you the best one!". Another snicker.
"Yoke" is short for "Yokahama diving dress"; a precursor to the modern drysuit, they were originally designed for use with heavy gear ( breastplate/helmet ). We had retrofitted them with a conventional neck seal to allow for use with our lightweight helmet, the "Rat Hat". Rugged & durable, these suits were ideal for the abuses of construction diving, but over the years were put aside for the more modern dress. Regretably, these suits no longer received regular maintenance...
To my dismay, the moment I opened the patched & slightly moldy bag, several obese moths emerged from its' dark recesses & lumbered off into the sky. I yanked the tired old suit out & gave it the once over, all the while cursing my luck in a whispered stream of fowl obsenities.
A short while later I was suited up & stood, with 1/2" poly line in hand, at the edge of the roiling, bubbly syrup of aerated chicken goo. No sweat, just a walk down a gentle slope to 30', keep going outward for about 40', a quick circle search, sling the load & I'm outta here, I thought to myself as I took those first tentative steps into the mire. I may as well have been walking on oiled ice! Down on me arse I went & slid like a greased pig till I piled up in a boil of slithering entrails.
No problem. Back on my feet, get my bearings & head out. I had travelled maybe 10' when I first sensed the influx of warm, sludgy semi-fluids seeping into my antiquated diving dress. It was coming down my neck, my back, front, & both legs. I quickened my pace, queasy with the thought of what hideous mutant organisms might dwell in this retched avian scum pond! My mind conjured images of spiny, scaled critters with horny bird feet, patiently probing my orifices for access.
And then....the aerator!! Tie the knot! Leaving bottom! I would have ran back had my suit not been flooded up to my ribs! Never had a diver so sodden with cluck muck returned to the land of disenfectant as fast as I did that day!
One hour a 17 showers later, I was pronounced fit to join the human race once more. My last act before leaving that fowl place was to bottle some effluent, which, after brewing for several days in the sun, I poured gingerly into my tender's workboots.
As I waited in the lobby for my lovely lady, I ruminated over my days work. What can you do but chuckle at lifes little sidetrips? I was still chuckling as my maiden emerged from the elevator:
"Hi baby! thank god you're hear...I'm near to starving!" she gushed.
" What shall it be, my little wallflower...filet mingon'? lobster thermadore?...brisket du Daniel hhmmmmmm??" I murmured.
"Sounds good but.......HOW ABOUT CHICKEN!!"
Finger lickin good indeed!
D.S.D.
