Dedicated to all FIFO workers, 

their families,

 and 

My Loved Ones

Holy Hell, look at the size of that thing!

The shouted comment came from the bloke sat next to me. He was looking out the port side window of our chopper. I was straining my neck trying to catch a glimpse of our destination.

Can't see a bloody thing, mate.

He pointed excitedly.

You can't miss it!

He was right. There she sat in 250 metres of water, surrounded by a flotilla of little boats that looked like worker bees flitting around the queen. They were tiny, almost insignificant against the monstrous floating red giant we were about to land on, the largest floating structure ever built by man. The chopper circled once, pointed itself into the wind, and lined up on the starboard helideck. Slowly, ever so slowly we landed. Home sweet home, or at least home-away-from-home. We were the first operational Shift to take over from the tow down crew after a journey encompassing four years of construction and 5800 kilometres across the oceans and seas. The World's largest FLNG (Floating Liquefied Natural Gas) facility was right where she should be. Well almost; she had another three nautical mile to its final destination. This project was the latest chapter in my personal FIFO (Fly In Fly Out) story that had begun 10 years before. It still had me pinching myself; how the hell did I get here, apart from the bleeding obvious helicopter we were in?

The oil and gas industry has always been the stuff for legend for me. Red Adair, No Country for Old Men, Texan donkey wells, North Sea storms hammering the paintwork off some lonely, iced-up rig. Plus the rumoured astronomical wages were something to aspire to.

So, in 1980, as I was being discharged from the Australian Army I was very excited to get a job offer on an oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico. Only problem was I was hooked up with a girl, and we had already made plans to sell everything in Tasmania, buy a big car, and drive to Darwin at the other end of the country.

Gulf of Mexico, big dollars, my long dreamed-of job, or go to Darwin with someone I loved at the time. Gulf, Darwin, Darwin, Gulf.

The family history will show that I took the road to Darwin, left that girl, married someone else and ended up seven years later in Perth, Western Australia.

In hindsight it was probably the better decision, apart from living in Struggle Street for the next 20 odd years. I mean, the oil and gas industry back then in the 1980s was incredibly dangerous, particularly in the Gulf. People wore helmets if they felt like it, worked stripped to the waist, covered in grease and grime, accidents were common. Machismo at its best. Or worst. And we were talking about American rigs.

Goddamn boy, get back to work, you’ve got another six fingers.

In the North Sea it seemed even worse. Occidental’s Piper Alpha, June 27, 1988 saw 167 poor souls lost when the rig blew up and sank as some of the other facilities in the field fed the flames and watched in frustrated anguish. The investigation and report chaired by Lord Cullen changed the whole industry for the better. Pity it always has to take a tragedy for change to occur.

Yes, it was probably for the best I knocked that job back I used to tell myself, but I could have been a Rig Pig, desired by (some) dubious women everywhere, living the life of a wealthy, carefree gypsy, flying in and out of sun-kissed tropical paradises. It could have been fun while it lasted, spending a fortune on wine, women and song and, in the words of the late great George Best, wasting the rest.

Instead, life went on in a much slower lane, for the most part happily.

Many years after knocking back that opportunity and just as I had made it to a stable, well-paying job in the emergency services, I happened to spot an advertisement for offshore traineeships with one of Australia’s largest oil and gas companies.

I was just on 50 years old, a 22 year marriage and two adult kids under my belt. The mortgage was paid off, we had money in the bank, my car actually had four good tyres and did not break down every week. Things were pretty sweet. Why would I risk all that? Surely they would not take someone my age, and without any experience. What the hell, I had nothing to lose. Just 48 hours before applications closed, and on a whim, I knocked up the forms, got together a decent CV to submit, and thought nothing more of it.

A month later I got a letter back; come in for an initial interview, in two days time, on a work day. They were a bit like that I was to discover, last minute and what, you have a life? The night before the appointment I decided that the whole thing was a waste of time, to give it a miss, just go to work and move on. Too old, too unfit, too everything.

The next day, with a few hours to go, I changed my mind, gave some half-arsed excuse to the boss and set off into the city. The address was one of those big flash Perth high rise buildings, the ones they built in the 1980s to replace all the beautiful old ones developers were knocking down. There were people everywhere. Hundreds and hundreds. Out on the street, inside the foyer, off in these side rooms, everywhere, all dressed up in their best. I thought for the first time, bloody hell, this is a big deal.

There were 12 traineeships available for the hundreds and hundreds of applicants. The actual number was closer to 6,000, all hoping to win the lottery. If I had known that at the time I might have given the process more of a worry, but as it was I was just there for the ride, waiting calmly amongst the masses for my name to be called out. One thing I could not help but notice; I was by far the oldest person there, at least it felt and looked that way.

There were lots of young blokes, a few middle-aged ones, and a handful of anxious girls being ogled by just about everyone else. There were short people, tall ones, fat and thin, flash and not so flash, some outside smoking and pacing the pavement nervously. Others were talking their chances up, too loud to be anything but bluff.

Yeah mate, 20 years offshore.

10 years in Nigeria, then the last five in Iraq.

Semi-submersible off Africa, then Floaters on the North-West Shelf.

Been there, done that.

Mate, if this mob don’t take me, they are mugs.

Blah blah blah blah.

And so it went. Most of the people were just quiet, like me, listening to the bullshitters and weighing up their chances.

The assessors split us up into smaller groups. We were led into various rooms and sat through test after test. Maths, English, engineering puzzles, comprehension, psychology tests, checking list after list of words and numbers for accuracy. It was fun, I enjoyed it. Had not done anything like it since University, and before that the Army. These testing regimes had already been going on for a week; we were the last group to go through the first part of a long, convoluted selection process. It took most of the afternoon and I was drained afterwards. The loud people were not so loud anymore.

Shit, what the hell was that all about?

Nothing about oil and gas in any of them. What a load of rubbish.

Well, good luck, mate, see you around.

OK, thank you, said the smart-looking girl who looked like a model, we will be in touch.

With some of you anyway, I thought…

I went back to my life again, not really knowing what I had just applied for, except that it was offshore and in the oil and gas industry.

Weeks later, maybe months, a letter came. I was through to the next round. The 6,000 had been brutally whittled down to about 400. Still no chance I thought, but what did I have to lose? Let’s just see how far this goes.

Interviews. Role plays. More tests and puzzles. Scenarios to work through in groups. The faces of my fellow participants are a blur now. I cannot remember a single person I went through that process with.

Some people tried to bluff their way through. I could tell straight away. Why couldn’t they see it for themselves? Some people were too quiet, trying to slip through under the radar. Others just got through it all as painlessly as they could manage. It was a tiring and intense process, some just disappeared half way through the day, never to return. You would see them there for morning tea, then gone by the afternoon. For some strange reason I enjoyed it all, I felt no pressure, either way things were hunky dory. My life would still be OK no matter what happened here. And so I felt no pressure, except to be myself and be honest. It seemed to work.

After four months they had the numbers down to the final 50. From 6,000 to 50. What are the odds? I was starting to get excited. The bastards. Get a bloke excited and expectant and then blow them out of the water. There was no way they were going to take someone:

• At my age.
• With no experience in the industry.
• With no offshore or FIFO background.
• With a working life as weird as mine who kept on telling them I was perfectly happy with what I was already doing.

But there you go, and there I was amongst the final 50, despite my own doubts. Maybe this could really happen.

More role plays, scenarios, group sessions, tests, interviews, question after question. What would you do in this case? If you dropped that spanner and nobody saw it, how would you react? You are all together in a dome, 50 of you but only 25 can survive. There are, amongst others, a doctor, a priest, a lawyer, a chef. How and who do you choose to live? We had a fierce session over the priest. What good is a priest? After half an hour one person was still with the priest, the rest were for throwing him to the wolves. It was all about reaching a compromise via discussion, putting your argument forward, being involved. That priest, and the bloke defending him, were finally removed.

The final phase of the process was different; instead of a single assessor floating around in the background, those sessions had as many watchers as participants. You just had to ignore them, all with clipboards, never saying a word, each with that quiet seriousness and that ever-ticking pen. For every moment we were in the building we were being assessed; morning teas, breaks between sessions, casual conversations, jokes shared, personal details being uncovered, bit by bit, those bloody clipboards. What we did not know was that these assessors were high level managers, all experienced leaders, determined to sort the wheat from the chaff. I mean, some of us would be working on their facilities; their lives and jobs depended on selecting non-nutters, people who could do the job safely and cooperatively.

It was important.

Finally - eventually - we were interviewed one last time, to determine the selection of the 12 trainees. Three people - two men and one woman - faced me across a desk, in a small room. For the first time I was seriously nervous. Your life, your family, your beliefs, your attitude, your opinions, how you felt about safety, the environment, other people being selected. It was all questioned and probed. I had been through the Navy and Army selection processes, prodded, poked and psychoanalysed by Vietnam veterans; it was nothing compared to this. Six months, three separate stages, dozens of interviews and tests. Here we were, down to the final 50.

Good luck. We will let you know. Again.

I was glad to be done with it.

A few months later someone from The Company left a message; please call back. It was the moment of truth.

You have a medical.

The last hurdle.

I passed with flying colours, despite my honest description of existing and previous ailments, wounds and scars. Except for the five hernias they found; no one had seen that coming, not even me. But they were little and not fatal.

So, 26 years after that first job offer in oil and gas I was officially part of the industry that had fascinated me for as long as I could remember. One of 12 trainees, on a starting salary of $20,000 more than what I was currently on, three months onshore training and then nearly two years on board one of two offshore facilities to learn my new trade.

Do you accept?

My oath I do.

It was like winning the Pools, the lottery, at the ripe old age of 50, and still the most ancient Trainee ever taken on by The Company.

I was a Rig Pig at last. I called my old Mum in Sydney.

Ma, I’ve got a new job.

What is it, Son?

I’m a piano player in a whorehouse.

Silence. We had both read the book by Paul Carter.

Be careful out there, my boy, don’t catch crabs.