To the Sea - (A fishing story of sorts. A long story...)

Leaving Nigeria


Many years ago, I was contracted to an international company to supervise the construction of piping systems for three offshore platforms in Nigeria, West Africa. We were to set one platform each off the coasts of Nigeria, and Cabinda (Province of Angola), and Zaire (Democratic Republic of the Congo). These were not large production platforms; the Nigeria and Zaire projects were relatively small auxiliary platforms while the Cabinda project was a moderately sized gathering and separation platform. Total time on land, in Nigeria, to build all three was about three months.


The platforms were then loaded onto separate barges and hauled to their general locations by an ocean-going tugboat. After loading out the platforms, we would split into two crews and board separate work barges to be towed to the sites where we would complete the systems. The completion would take about sixty days for the first two platforms. My crew would go to Cabinda while the other crew would go just off the coast of Nigeria. Upon completion of our respective platforms, the two crews would join forces and together, and in roughly thirty days, finish the job of Zaire.


I am not a big drinker, although I have on occasion drank enough to float a barge. With the prospect of being at sea for the next ninety days, it seemed like a good idea to take along a few bottles of something. However, being fifty miles up the Escravos River in a place called Warri, Nigeria, the selection can be quite limited. After thoroughly searching the town I came away with one bottle of Cutty Sark, two bottles of Muscatel, and one cellophane wrapped, one twelfth case, of Bazooka Joe bubble gum. The Bazooka Joe would later prove to be a valuable trading commodity at sea.


A day ahead of schedule, I boarded the work barge in order to ensure my choice of bunks. This would be our home for the next sixty days, until transferring to a larger barge for completion of the Zaire platform. I chose a spot on the port side at the bow of the barge. This looked to me to be a prime location as it was next to a door leading out onto a very small, very secluded, outboard deck that dead-ended at the bow of the barge. The main entrance was at the inboard end of this very dark, poorly lit, windowless, ten-man room and would keep traffic to a minimum past my bunk and on the deck. At sea a barge can become extremely small and this “porch” proved to be a good place to get away.


About and hour after I boarded the barge, the captain of the barge came down to the cabin and welcomed me aboard. Captain Beaudreau was a full blood coon-ass (French-Canadian descendant) from Bayou Black, Louisiana, and to my way of thinking an instantly likeable fellow. After informal introductions and some small chit-chat, Captain Beaudreau, taking a look around to be sure no one else was about, asked me quite pointedly “Y’all got’ny alcohol wit’chu”?


Mimicking his quick glance around the empty room, I confided in him “Course”.


Opening his eyes just a bit wide behind his thick glasses he said, “You know alcohol’s illegal on a work barge on da high seas don’t’chu”? I admitted with a bit of growing apprehension that I did. He then stated that the Nigerian Customs agent was coming on board in about an hour, and that he was going to take the agent to the galley for lunch. The Captain said “If’n he wants’ta look around, I got a place in da crane out on da deck where we can hide da booze. I’ll let’chu know”. With a mild feeling of relief, I sincerely thanked him and shook his hand as he left. The hiding place proved to be unnecessary, but a friendship had been formed that was to be both enjoyable and useful.


I spent the night on the barge to prevent someone from stealing my bunk. A couple of other fellows came on board that evening for the same reason and took the bunks across from me. Andy Bergeron from Canada took the bottom bunk while Chris Warwick from Halt Whistle, North Umberland, England, UK, took the top bunk. Chris and I would become close friends before it was all over and remain in touch for many years. And though Andy and I would be good friends Andy would remain a bit standoffish, as I tended in those days to be a bit of a rebel.


Early the next morning the rest of the crew boarded the barge. The crew was made up of sixty ex-patriots from the USA, Canada, The UK (England), and sixty Nigerian Nationals, representing six different tribes, and seven barge crewmen including the captain, a hundred and twenty-seven people in all. Shortly after noon a small river tug tied on to us and towed us the first twenty-five miles down the snaking Escravos River. Then a larger river tug towed us the next twenty-five miles through the Niger Delta to the mouth of the river and the Gulf of Guinea. At this point, a large ocean-going tug met us and would tow us into the Atlantic Ocean, across the Equator and eight hundred miles south to Cabinda, Province of Angola.


I stayed up late into the night enjoying my porch, as the hundred and twenty-foot tugboat with our barge in tow got under way. Pealing out about one-hundred feet of cable, the tug started the slow but steady twenty-four hours per day, nine-day trip south. I sat on the porch for hours as we smoothly made our way through the darkness. Lighted by what could only be described as thousands of natural gas flares from the offshore oil wells in the Gulf of Guinea that supply America with fully one of every ten gallons of imported oil. Around 2:00 A.M. I went inside and slept soundly.


To be continued...

 

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