Deep Thoughts from Deep Down
Talk about being under pressure. And a lot of it too. Commercial divers get the big bucks, sure, everyone knows that. But with that comes one nightmarishly claustrophobic and dull existence, especially after 36 straight days of being inside a prison of Heliox pressure, alternating between a cramped living chamber and a tight diving bell. Former FiNS Magazine contributor Lin Shin Chuan, who went off to become a serious commercial diver (and probably regrets it now), shares some snapshots of his sentence on an oil rig somewhere in the Gulf of Thailand.
‘PPZzzzZZTTTTssshhhh!’ The piercing sound of gas resonates through the darkened tomb of the chamber as the medical interlock is pressurised from the surface.
“Greg. Lin. Kevin. This is your one-hour Notice To Dive. Your breakfast is in the med-lock.”
Oooooh…Somebody please kill him. I burrow into my blanket as the chill of the 24-degree Celsius Heliox environment creeps into my limbs. It’s only Day 10, and I absolutely hate the sound of his Voice already! Breakfast. Hah! Served to you at whatever ungodly hour his Highness, the Life Support Supervisor, happens to wake you up.
My G-Shock’s illuminated face shows 22:00. Movement…and the cover on the sole chamber light is whisked off. Greg is already gone from his bed for his wakeup toilet visit.
Legs twitching in protest, I contort myself out of my coffin-like bunk without conking my head on the chamber ceiling three feet above me, or waking the guy in the bottom bunk. Yeah, right. Anyone who can sleep through the sound of his Voice or the hydraulic winches going off right above you every eight hours, must be DEAD.
I look over at my buddy Kevin in the opposite bunk. Kevin’s cadaverous eyes catch mine and he mouths a silent but potent curse. We had hoped to get a day off work after nine days of continuous diving, but the powers-at-be had decided otherwise. I guess my prayer for bad weather didn’t get answered either.
This is the pinnacle (or perhaps trough) of Commercial Diving — Deep Saturation, where you live in a pressurised chamber to allow unlimited bottom time in deep environments of up to 300 metres. Closing my eyes, I wonder if I took a wrong turn somewhere in my four-year diving career and somehow ended up in a penal colony doing hard labour. It certainly feels like it today.
The old hands say it gets easier with every trip. This is my FIRST, and I can only hope that I live long enough to see if they’re right. Ten days in, and ONLY 18 more to go. I’m counting the hours until I can get out to see the sun, feel a breeze on my face, and take a leisurely dump in the toilet without having to call for a “Shitta-Flush” each time I’m done.
It would also be nice to skip and hop around instead of creeping like roaches in a sardine tin with five other divers (all bigger than me) packed in a space less than half of a commuter bus. The other three divers got lucky and have the Hyperbaric Rescue Chamber entirely to themselves.
We’re diving the Gulf of Thailand in the Erawan Oil Field, installing pipeline spool pieces and sleepers for a new oil rig. The depth is 63 metres, and the work is heavy construction on a clay mud bottom. Visibility is about 30 metres until you get to within five metres of the bottom and stir up the mud, then you have to grope around like a pervert on a crowded train. Our mode of transport to the job site is a two-metre round diving bell that houses three grown men plus dive helmets, bailout tanks, umbilicals, emergency supplies and gas for the duration of the 8-hour work shift. “Cozy” is an understatement.
Yup. Eight hours. Seal-to-Seal. Giving or taking an hour for bell launching and recovery still leaves a zombiefying seven hours lockout time in the water for two of the three divers, and brain-freezing boredom for the remaining bell-man contemplating the rusty gauges and fighting off the schools of light-bewitched fish swarming through the bottom hatch.
You know you have achieved physical Nirvana when you dive for seven hours straight. My fingers turn translucent like jelly tentacles; my feet start to resemble fins as toenails begin to peel off; and I develop gills on my neck from the constant abrasion of the helmet toilet-seat. I only discovered my first pearl of saturation wisdom AFTER my inaugural seven-hour immersion — the sardine tin living chamber I so disdained is absolute Hog-Heaven when compared to the fish-smelling coke-can of a dive bell. I will pray for more enlightenment on every trip.
Tonight, my tuna-mayo sandwich toast looks like road kill. I think the Assistant Life Support Technician squished it when he blew down the med-lock a bit faster than usual. Greg’s chomping down into a HUGE bowl of cereal, yogurt, fruits, milk — weevils and all. These Aussies can sure put it away. Not to mention the endless cups of bitter brewed coffee. Sigh. I already miss my Teh-Tarik. Kevin broods over his second cup of coffee while he manhandles the intercom for a work brief from the Supervisor.
“Okay guys, we’re going to be doing air-lifting and some measurements on this run, so we only need two guys. Who’s sitting this one out?”
“Kevin!” a blood curdling *squeak* (everyone sounds like Donald Duck on Ecstasy in the Bin) from a caffeine-reanimated Kevin-corpse startles me, before I realise that you don’t have to raise your hand to be heard inside Saturation. Greg gives me a loopy grin: “Awww…poor baby.”
Boo. I suppose I need the experience anyway. Maybe, just maybe, I might get a day off tomorrow too if we can’t finish this air-lifting today…Another day. Another dollar. Sigh.
