When it first appeared, it was like a tiny pinprick on the horizon, winking back at me. I squinted, trying to work out exactly what it was, but it was no use. We were being buffeted by the waves and besides, it was too far away.
Eight hours earlier the shipping agent had collected me from my hotel, driven me to the port and pointed to the boat tied up alongside. It was one of several water taxis, about the size of a small single decker bus, that brought men to the ships anchored in the river or out in the bay. This one had a flat open deck with a red, target like, circle painted on it.
I chose a seat by a window, strapped myself in and waited. In a rare moment of calm, I watched as the Wouri river sneaked by, winding its way, past the city, deep into the heart of Cameroon. I didn’t know it then but that was to be the last restful moment I would have until I arrived back in Dublin two weeks later.
Ten minutes passed. The light on the horizon was bigger, only now I could see that it wasn’t a light at all; it was a gas flare, stretching out from the top of an enormous tower.
I was headed for a sea tug, out of sight, somewhere deep in the ocean. Its radar was broken. Without it, they were blind, leaving them at the mercy of abandoned wells and ruthless pirates. The year was 1982, Ireland was in the grip of a recession and I was just 23 years of age. This was my first real job. I knew the theory, having graduated just 12 months earlier, but I was under no illusions about my abilities. I was the least capable in the office.
‘That may be so’, said my boss, without a hint of sarcasm, ‘but you’re also the only one available.’
The boat slowed. I could now feel the heat of the flare. The first time you see an oil rig up close is something you’ll never forget. The metal lattice towers rise hundreds of feet above the ocean surface and sink a thousand feet below. The concrete platform is 10 times higher than a two-story house. A helipad sits to one side, a crane in the centre, and a cluster of metal buildings surrounds the drill bit, the reason for the very existence of this monster.
The water swirled about the pylons, almost like it was keen to warn us off. We were nearly under the platform now. In perfect symmetry the boat stopped and the crane swung directly overhead. A cable running through its outstretched arm lowered a hefty triangular rope cage.
If somebody had told me then that it was called a Personnel Transfer Basket, I might have guessed what was coming next. As it hit the deck, in the very centre of the red circle, I felt a hand on my shoulder.
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