100 Days in the Gulf

It's been a hundred days in the Gulf since the Deepwater rig blew, and delta tidal flats are bared and then buried by the lunar sequence, much as they ever were. Of course, progress has left an indelible mark this time, and the ecology changes, continues to evolve. There is an issue regarding impact, one of long-term consequence. There is the matter of message, a question of what we have learned.

In southern Louisiana and along the Gulf coast, an oil spill is a shame for lots of reasons: it makes seafood inedible, kills some of the fun of a fishing trip, a day at the beach. It makes people less likely to get in their cars in the first place and drive down for summertime vacations. It also kills birds and marine life, something that flips a switch in many of us, tickling some intrinsic recess of our mind where we still strive for a balance, for a oneness with mother nature.

The years ahead will see research and debate, occasional media reports addressing environmental impact. They will also see the extraction of oil at a record pace, more next year than now, more of it to satisfy the needs of more and more men, the wants of more and more women. Wether we've reached a peak or not, we'll continue unabashed to burn oil for many moons. The skies will brown, the atmosphere sicken. There will be hotter summers and colder winters. There will be horrific storms and skin cancers. But life will adapt and find its way. Some will get trampled, others will seek higher ground.

From slip one in Tiger Pass, I see media vans and reporters--they no longer warrant much attention. I still see Greenpeace from time to time and other environmental activists. I still listen to them on "The Think Tank", Garland Robinette's local FM coverage and debate. Today one activist discusses the methods of his movement, the acceptance of minor victories. It sounds like he's signed on to one of our two big political parties, and he's got to make a pitch for his team. "Putting solar panels on every roof isn't the answer," he says. "We know that." He makes excuses for the lack of progress, he justifies political expediency.

We can blame the media, the government, the corporations. We can call it propaganda if we like, but popular belief--conventional wisdom--maintains that there is no alternative to oil. That may even be true. Solar panels are overly expensive and don't make economic sense. Windmills need costly maintenance and frequently break down. Batteries require lots of energy to produce. Nuclear energy is passe and creates an unseemly byproduct. Whatever's wrong with geothermal, I forget.

The reduction of biodiversity is a slow process, and the ultimate demise of life on the planet won't happen overnight. It's going to be a long, arduous task, a slow train to shitsville. It won't happen in 100 days, not in a thousand years. Life will exist on earth until its sucked into the sun, but that life will have to deal with the consequences of the human explosion and the quest for more.

the cleanup

With a storm bearing down on the Gulf of Mexico, large work boats involved in the cleanup again flee up river to escape threatening weather, while boats like mine, inexplicably, prepare to go offshore. Just days ago, the air stood still, and a brown cloud of burn-off was visible from Venice above the Mississippi delta. It's a cloud most commonly seen above mankind and his settlements--I used to look out of the window of airplanes back and forth to Asia, and it would alert me to land, a continent approaching. For days that phenomenon has swapped around coastal Louisiana, as oil collectors offshore burn the sea above Mississippi Canyon block 258.

At the fuel dock taking on 8,000 gallons of diesel, 12,000 in water, I notice four zodiac inflatables secured vertically to the deck of a work boat at the south end of the dock. I used to manage a fleet of Mark V's, so I slide down to inspect, wind up in conversation with a mate onboard. They've got stacks of boom and absorbent pads, so I ask him about the cleanup.

"Cleanup?" he says. "If you can call it that." He tells me the coast guard or navy guys drive the zodiacs to place or collect boom. He shows me some of the material, some of it inflatable itself up to 5 feet in diameter. "By the end of the day, they're all over the place from wind and sea." Even in calm, he says, the fierce delta current itself will push oil beyond the boom, and at slack tide, it will come from underneath, seeping up the seabed, to freshly coat the beach and marsh.

Back in slip one in Tiger Pass and under the crane in late afternoon, the old Mary Jean pulls alongside. It's Rick on deck, and he says they're looking for a place to hide, looking forward to a few days at the dock. Of course, the cleanup suspended. He gives me an update on the fish-turned-skimmer-boat operation. He says they just made a grocery run with boxes of the same stuff they carried out two days ago: frozen fries and pork chops, chips and little debbies, an abundance of condiments: ketchup, mayonnaise, tabasco.

"They don't even want half the stuff," he says. "They've got these little propane cook stoves. I see 'em tossin' fries overboard!" His voice is drowned out by two apache helicopters, national guard, probably their last run for the day. The slip's as busy as ever now, the boat parade of day-workers returning. "These fishermen are askin' me," Rick continues, "'What am I suppose da do? Make tabasco soup?'" He does a good coon-ass imitation. He pulls on a cigarette, turns into the wind. "Let it blow," he says, and I must produce a frown. "Oh," Rick notices, "you must have to go out." That is the case, and soon we'll prepare for heavy seas.

And then good news

There are kayakers in the river this morning. I don't see them but hear a warning call about it on VHF 67 for river traffic. I love kayaking, have one, but why would anyone in their right mind want to kayak the Mississippi river right now--with all this work boat traffic? The transmission launches quite a response from various boats. One captain, it must be a tug, proclaims with the cajun proclivity to pronounce certain t's as d's, "Das about da dummest thing I seen."

Below the head of passes, it's mostly marsh and pasture where cows graze on both banks, sometimes appearing on sandy beaches. Crewboats like mine are generally the fastest boats plying river waters, save the occasional small speed boat which may pass us by. We do around 25 knots going down, depending on load or commodities on board. We'll make about 19 coming up. With a planing hull, meaning the forward part of the boat climbs out of the water at top speed, we also produce the greatest wake, which is a constant concern these days and leads to lots of clutch-ahead driving at 7 knots--and to frequent bickering over the radio, a tug captain sitting idle watching workers on a barge must have little else to do than complain about someone's wake. The larger, displacement-hulled work-boats make around 12 knots and produce very little wake. The container ships and tankers produce almost no wake, although they will suck water from the banks.

Offshore, immense stretches of sea are now an emulsion of oil and water, a muckish brown and black, a sickening miasma. BP's latest effort to cap the well has left an unfettered spew at the base of Mississippi Canyon, and its no longer a creeping sheen on top, its one with the water. I see dolphins for the first time swimming in the mixture, as I'm stuck pumping water offshore to the same platform, we're here every day. We got the #3 engine fixed after the fire, but this morning we lost the #4, a ruptured water line to the turbo. It's down until we get a new pipe. Alex spots a blue crab at the surface. We're in 350 feet of water. We realize we haven't seen a school of fish in days. Its the greatest environmental disaster in the history of the land, is it? But that would be the arrival of the white man.

I can't walk the boat to starboard without the #4, and the current has completely swapped and comes at us from the east. We spent last week sterning into the elements, the easiest way; now the current is pushing me into the platform. I crank up the bow thruster and let it go. We try not to use it when guys are sleeping, but everyone's up and I wouldn't have a choice anyway being down an engine. I try to follow radio news, turn up the volume, more US soldiers dead in Afghanistan. Soon the sound bleeds into the rumble of the thruster while the current screams like we're in the river. I've got the bow thruster wide open, just to keep the boat off the platform leg. It's rattling everything, making it impossible to hear the radio, and the sun is glaring in my face. I'm starting to sweat, and it all pisses me off. I'm angry for the first time in awhile.

Soon we're done and on the way in, and then good news: someone announces on channel 16 that BP has capped the well. It's no longer flowing. Its day 86. At the head of passes--one of the widest spots along the Mississippi, there's something small in the river moving across. It must be an animal, almost mid-channel. I pull the throttles back to give it more time, and its a coyote crossing the river at a good clip. He must be eying the opposite field of cows.

incident report

Two days after getting our ass kicked offshore in a storm, we have an engine room fire. I'm not kidding. I write the following incident report and submit it to my company. It's copied verbatim...

At 14:00 we left SP89 en route to SP55, arriving at about 14:20. Alex had done an engine round during the trip and reported everything in order. Switching to the stern controls at 55, I noticed smoke around the STBD blowers. It wasn't a great deal but enough to cause concern. Alex went to investigate via the deck hatch and came out waving his arms. I pulled forward until we were downwind of the platform and shut down the engines and blowers. Alex was already inside yelling "fire" and waking the others. Alex and I then went on deck to close the blower vents. When Joseph arrived, Alex and I went below, inspected the engine room for smoke and heat and found it tolerable. We acquired the #8 and #9 extinguishers from the machinery space, hyper-ventilated briefly (skin-diving method), took a deep breath and entered the engine room. There was a good deal of smoke and a fairly small fire, maybe a foot or two of flame atop the #3. We delivered one blast of dry-chem and retreated to the machinery space, but smoke had entered when we opened the hatch, and we were forced into the galley. Joseph and Greg confirmed all blower vents were shut, although this was difficult and required a crowbar as several covers have been dented by lifts.

We made our second attack from the galley in the same manner with Joseph and Greg working the door to keep smoke out of the cabin. I believe the fire was extinguished after the second blast, although it did re-flash once, and a third extinguishing became necessary. Both dry-chems were emptied. We re-checked multiple times before resuming ventilation and eventually re-starting the engines. Subsequent inspection revealed a cracked injector tube on the #5 cylinder. That engine has been vibrating excessively for some time.

Alex and I were barely able to attack the fire from the galley and get back without taking a breath. Alex and I both inhaled some smoke and probably some dry chemical, but I don't believe it was a serious amount. I experienced a little tightness of breath last night but appear to be fine. Alex say's he's ok. An emergency air source would benefit greatly a future crew in this predicament. I know an SCBA would be over-kill for a crewboat, but I've seen small, emergency "escape" breathing units that contain just a few minutes of air. Perhaps two such units per boat would not be prohibitively expensive. If the fire or smoke had been much worse on Saturday, we would not have been able to fight it without the fixed system.

A storm at sea

photo by Joshua Adams

There is nothing quite like a storm at sea. I've scoured the globe for years, seen lots of disturbing images, lived through a great earthquake once on the Asian ring of fire. But a white sea is a unique beast, an inestimable entity which may inspire with its beauty, prompting some into acts of courage. Others it will cripple with paralyzing fear.

At least we're at the dock when I wake, shower and coffee in peace. When I'm toweling off, the chord of my necklace snaps and it drops to the deck. I pick up the Maori bone carving, a fish hook I was given in New Zealand in 2000. It keeps me safe at sea. I examine it for a breath, and its fully intact but aging, turning yellow and beginning to pockmark, its edges nearly translucent. I drop it in my breast pocket and head to the bridge.

Morning news debates a moratorium on deep-water drilling. The Obama administration is asking a federal judge in Louisiana to reinstate the ban. You won't find someone around here, a local at least, who thinks that's a good idea. To the common man, its a simple matter of jobs, and businesses have evolved to service the market for deep-water drilling. People here call for a moratorium on BP--why punish other companies with good safety records who seem extremely unlikely to allow a blowout in the first place, let alone after what has transpired? These people have a point. The Deepwater rig explosion wasn't a mechanical failure or even a freak accident. It was a year-long drama of bad decisions by a rogue company.

The dock crane drops a small basket on us, and two passengers arrive. The dispatcher boards with them, and a huddle forms on deck. "They're 'shut in' at the rig, cap. They need these tools." Our potential passengers look grim. "I know it's gonna be rough, but they're askin' ya to give it a shot." A long run would be out of the question, but its only 7 miles beyond the river to location; its a tolerable amount of heavy sea.

Nearing the jetties at the tip of the Mississippi, a SE wind sends waves hurdling rocks and reaching the channel. We round the bend and head east toward an unseen sunrise, taking the sea on the starboard bow, turning right toward the biggest waves to keep the boat from pitching side to side. We're about a mile from the platform when the next swell is a monster; I'm looking up from the window. I pull the throttles back, hear an "Oh shit" from Alex, brace myself and boom! When the whiteout clears our anchor sits askew on the bow, its been dislodged from its aluminum housing. The next swell and it's airborne. For a split second I envision it coming through the bridge windows--I should hit the deck, but before I can react, we roll to starboard and another awful sound. Alex is at the port window glaring down. I leap left to look, and the anchor's between the house and bulwarks. It needs to be secured, and Alex says he'll do it. "Lifejacket!" I call as he heads below.

I dash back and forth from wheel to window, monitoring his progress. He's got the anchor against a cleat and he's wrapping it with line, making figure 8's with the anchor underneath, cinching it to the bits. I concentrate on the throttles, attempt to keep the boat as steady as possible. I've got to keep the bow into the sea, not get broadside in the trough, where any boat--no matter the size--could go down in a big-enough sea. I sense momentum from ahead and there's another huge wave. I bang on the window but its useless. The deck is awash in whitewater. Alex's arm emerges first, he's clutching the fluke in one hand and the line in the other. In another minute, he's dripping on the bridge, reaching for a cigarette. He's plenty dry by the time we beat our way through the final mile, take care of operations, and surf our way home pushing 26 knots in the following sea.

De-Con

We've only been offshore about 20 minutes when I get out of bed. The same shit again this morning but worse: the seas have grown larger than 10 feet, the wind blowing 30, even 40 knots at times. I glance out the window on my way to the bridge, and a single diesel tote tank sits unchained on deck. We're running slowly already, but I pull the engines completely out of gear, and Joseph chains down the tank. There won't be a sunrise on the horizon today, but a thousand grays exist there now, the sea a blend of foam and bending light. I run at 900 to 1000 RPMs, roughly half power, and it's not a bad ride. Most people don't run crew boats this way, but I'm paid by the day and like to slow it down.

The platform crane lowers a sling and Alex rigs the tote tank, then we catch a line on the platform leg. It's poly-propelene rope with no give, and after the boat surges twice in good swells, the line parts. Its the first time I've seen a mooring line part on a boat. It sounds like a gun shot. I have to live-boat under the platform edge and receive a hose. For about 40 minutes we stay connected, pumping water. It's easy to hold it in there, but the swells are only growing. A squall approaches and the platform's nearly topped off. We disconnect the hose and put out what remains of the hang-off line, still 200 feet. This time we add a nylon spring to the end of the poly-pro, its Alex's idea.

We spend the next 7 hours without moving the boat, the stern slamming into swells, projecting an oily mist. The sheen is raging fast today, at least two knots from the ESE, which will surely put lots of oil onto the eastern delta--and a fair amount on our boat. Some time around four, the seas are 12 to 15 feet, and the line pops again. Greg calls on 06, and the "company man" has nothing for us, lets us head in. It looks like we've been standing by all day for nothing, watching a fleet of large work boats head for the river to escape the weather.

We surf into SW Pass, spinning the wheel to counteract yawing. The pass is busy as always with ships and dredges, tugs and barges. Rain pelts the windshield and vision is fuzzy, wipers spreading oil. At the Head of Passes, we call the de-con station on 67, switch to 11, and try to arrange a wash-down. Its the IOP Pipeliner, some vender's barge, obviously paid for by BP. I try to get instructions, but its awfully hard to hear. I clutch out and the boat drifts.

The waste water of middle America bears down on us en masse, but the wind prevails and we slide upstream. I can see a guy on the barge speaking into a hand-held radio, but we hear jumbled words, mostly crackling wind. Alex and I decipher meaning from the transmission: it may take a few hours to wait out the present squall. I try to tell him we're in no hurry; he doesn't seem to hear.

We sit for minutes, unsure of what to do. The guy comes back on the radio, but its useless against the wind. Eventually a skiff circles our boat, bouncing in a three-foot chop. A worker on the bow fixes a yellow flag onto a boat hook, then the boat disappears from view under the bow. "Its still yellow," he says clearly on 11, "you look pretty clean, cap." Alex and I just look at each other. Is he wiping that flag onto our hull? It's a cursory inspection, to say the least. We sit there for another minute. The radio again, "You can wait for a wash-down, cap, but it'll be in the morning." Now it's in the morning. Its rough for the river, I'll give them that, but these guys obviously don't want to wash the boat. I tell them to keep it safe, and we head back to Venice.

South Pass 55

With the cleanup suspended for weather and the floating city evacuated, we're left hauling cargo to a small natural gas production platform in South Pass block 55. We're again dividing watches, 12 hours each, and I'm on days from 0600 to 1800. I awake at 0500 to a pounding offshore, the rough-seas morning ritual one of my least favorite, up there with a splitting-headache hangover. I lay in bed as long as possible, then struggle with sox and boots, manage to brush teeth, a shower and shave out of the question. The boat will run 20 knots even in 10-foot seas, but it will also knock your teeth out if you don't hold on. I take the wheel and we're almost there, a glimmer of hope for the day.

As a hurricane makes land in the southern Gulf, the stretch from the Venice Jump to the Head of Passes is lined with boats at anchor, and the crews from the floating city have been hoteled as their luck would have it, although I've never seen more than a light chop at the Baptiste jetties even with huge swells offshore; its protected by barrier islands. And while its rough enough below the delta to send even deep-water Responder boats up river, we head offshore with a series of containers and diesel tote tanks, 550 gallons each, chained and bound to the deck, and a few passengers.

We arrive at 55, a square yellow platform masking sunrise. I top the boat around, rolling steeply in the trough until the stern comes about to face the tremendous metal frame. I back our way under the crane which lowers a personnel basket, a circular standing platform and collapsable webbing with shock-resistant spring, and our passengers are whisked away, clothes fiercely flapping five stories or more to the top. We catch a line to wait for cargo. Looking aft from the stern controls at the back deck, oil comes at us on a wind-driven current, flaying white caps into fibers, the sky a purple bruise.

The radio says Japanese skimmer boats are en route to the Gulf, trumpeting the official line that "all recources are being utilized". Others say BP and the USCG refused offers of help from Dutch boats more than 2 months ago and that an Alaskan skimmer pledged to the cleanup weeks ago is not yet underway. I again hear Billy Nungesser, the portly president of Plaquemines Parish. He says he waited three and a half hours to see Joe Biden and got 30 seconds with the VP, unaware it would just be a photo op; his voice cracks with frustration.

We spend the day pumping water, transferring people and tools to and from a platform due south in block 75. The rig workers run "pigs" to each other via pipes along the ocean floor. We mostly sit on a line, bobbing like a cork, passing time reading books. Its much to rough to work on the boat, but the cranes of both platforms are on the west side--the right side for these conditions, so the loading and offloading operations are safe enough. Positioning the boat is a simple matter of backing and pivoting with the rudder amidships. At 18:00, we're standing by while the slick comes and goes, at times disappearing, and then only a trickle is discernible, released by crashing waves on platform legs and beams.