24/05/2026
So you did ask for chapter 2 on my journey into adulthood......
Chapter 2 "The Rig"
The Oil Rig
So, as I said, I was beyond excited about riding in a helicopter out to the rig. I was there with several other men. In those days there were no women allowed on rigs — although, thinking about it now, that may simply have been because they only had orange boiler suits and hard hats, and what looked like cowboy boots.
When we were told we all had to have a medical before joining the rig, I wasn’t remotely worried. I was 17, fit as a fiddle, and ready for anything.
The only problem was I’d been running on adrenaline for nearly three days with hardly any sleep and very little proper food.
So when the doctor told me to stand on my toes and close my eyes, I promptly fell flat on my face.
My vision of becoming a roughneck disappeared before my eyes.
“Well… you wasn’t expecting that then, were you?” the doctor laughed.
“No, I bloody wasn’t,” I answered, picking myself up off the floor with absolutely no help from him whatsoever.
“Let’s try that again,” he said. “Only this time you know what’s coming.”
Luckily enough, I passed with flying colours the second time around. He checked my throat, listened to my chest, took my blood pressure and finally told me, “Excellent.”
I was then instructed to wait outside because the nurse would “want a sample.”
Thankfully she either forgot about me or missed me altogether because nobody ever asked for one. To be honest, at 17 I hadn’t a clue what sort of sample they even meant.
That was pretty much the full extent of offshore health and safety in those days.
Still, none of it mattered because I still had the helicopter ride to come.
The waiting room was getting stuffy by now. There were ten hardened offshore lads packed into this tiny porta-cabin. Bear Grylls comes to mind — only without the deodorant. Add in cigarette smoke thick enough to chew and testosterone levels somewhere beyond measurable, and King Kong himself would have fitted in perfectly.
Different times.
You could smoke anywhere back then.
Still, I didn’t care. I was getting a helicopter.
One of the lads, known as the "wierdo", obviously the only non-smoker in the building — stepped outside for some fresh air. When he came back in he casually announced:
“Eh lads… getting a bit misty out there.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t get too thick,” another replied. “Otherwise it’s off to the supply boat.”
Boat?
BOAT?
Nobody had mentioned a bloody boat.
I was getting a CHOPPER.
No boat for me.
Of course, these were seasoned offshore men. Nothing fazed them. They took everything in their stride while I sat there trying not to look like a terrified child pretending to be a man.
Finally I spoke.
“Why would we get a boat? I thought we were getting a helicopter.”
The room exploded.
“Where are you from?”
“Liverpool,” I answered proudly.
“Don’t they get fog in Liverpool?”
More laughter.
“A virgin!”
“What are you joining as?”
“A roughneck.”
“FFS…”
“Are we babysitting now?”
“He wouldn’t know one end of a set of tongs from the other if they landed on his head from the derrick.”
I sat there nodding like I understood every word.
Truth was, I hadn’t got a clue what they were talking about.
Tongs? Derrick? Roughneck?
It sounded less like an oil rig and more like medieval warfare.
That was the moment reality crept in.
I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.
Bravado only takes you so far. After that, you are just a scared kid surrounded by men who have spent years doing the very thing you are pretending to understand.
So I decided to come clean.
I told them I didn’t know anything. I didn’t understand the job. Didn’t know the language. Didn’t even know what half the equipment was called.
Some laughed.
Some swore.
Some carried on smoking as though I didn’t even exist.
But strangely enough, I also sensed a little acceptance. One even said he admired my “balls,” which, at 17 years old, made me slightly uncomfortable if I’m honest.
Then the fog rolled in properly.
And with it, my fantasy of flying offshore like a Vietnam veteran hanging out of a Huey helicopter over Da Nang, chewing to***co and firing a machine gun into the jungle, completely disappeared.
All destroyed by fog.
So instead of a dramatic helicopter ride, the ten of us climbed aboard a supply boat for a six-hour journey through the North Sea.
The sea itself was flat and calm.
Silent almost.
Just the distant groan of foghorns and the eerie tolling bells from the buoys anchored out in the shallows, warning ships of danger hidden inside the mist.
Of course, at the time I understood none of it.
I was just mesmerised by the whole experience.
Then suddenly, through the haze, we saw it.
"The rig."
At first only lights glowing faintly through the fog. Then slowly this enormous structure emerged from the darkness, towering so high that the top disappeared completely into the mist above us.
I remember staring at it thinking:
How the hell do we get up there?
Then I saw it.
A giant rope net attached to a steel ring, lowered down from a crane with a heavy thump onto the deck beside us.
A couple of the lads casually threw their bags into the middle, stepped onto the outside edge gripping the ropes, and within seconds were lifted straight into the foggy night sky like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Bloody hell.
When my turn came, I launched my bag into the middle and climbed on, hanging on for dear life.
I never opened my eyes once.
Not until we hit the rig deck with an almighty bang.
It was nearly 11pm by then and I was absolutely drained.
Luckily, we weren’t starting shift until six the next morning.
We made our way to the cabin — no bigger than a dog kennel — where four of us slept packed together.
But by then all thoughts of excitement, fear, helicopters, disappointment and adventure had completely left me.
I fell onto the bunk and was asleep within seconds.
