Oilpocalypse Now

Surveying oil refineries can be very interesting work. Today, we had a blowout of sorts as every single ounce of production was forced up the flare stack into a spectacular blazing hydrocarbon inferno.

But what I find more interesting is the preamble to this tale.

For the past few weeks, we have been awaiting the mock ‘Doomsday Whistle’, a site-wide fire drill of sorts wherein we prepare for an actual emergency such as a fire or gas release. Rumors of a mock drill have been circulating for some time, but after a couple rumored deadlines came and went, the idea of an evacuation became further tucked into the deeper recesses of our minds.

Some time around 4pm today, my two chainmen and I were setting up a GPS receiver on a point to gather co-ordinates. In short, it involves setting up a receiver on a known point, then take 700 observations over ten or so minutes to gain more precision. The longer the mushroom stays on a point, the more accurately our eyes in the sky can discern the coordinates of that point.

One of my chainmen measured the distance of the receiver above the ground with his tape measure and relayed the coordinates for the other one to punch into the controller, which is basically a field computer. I remember this detail, because I was instructing him how to do this.

“1.666 meters” he said.

We both looked at each other as I cracked a joke about the countown to the Apocalypse. He did some math in his head and rattled off something that made him conclude 1.666 was in relation to 2012, the year the fabric of the universe is supposed to get swallowed whole.

I made my adjustments and readied the GPS to take its shots. The little display on the screen began counting down the estimated time until the 700 observations were made.

Over the eleven minutes or so, I heard stories from his oil rig days. We talked about front end loaders and drilling fluid.

I glanced at the clock again. Five minutes and 20 seconds to go. When the clock reached ten, I quietly began to count down to our final shot.

5 . . .4. . . 3. . . 2. . . 1 . . .

As it reached zero, I felt the heat off the flare stack and heard the Doomsday Whistle soar. I looked across the site and saw the safety man exiting his trailer, making hand gestures for us to get a move on.

And so we assembled with the masses of construction workers to watch the fiery smoke as unburnt bits of oil rained down on the site. The air tasted of Red Bull and tin, a disgusting mess of fruit and metal.

As we awaited for the ‘all clear’, a long-continuous blast of the horn to give us assurance that the accountants had done their cost/risk analysis of sending workers back to the job, we made small talk about how most of the people in white hard hats (management) seemed to stand a head taller than the rest of the workers. Someone else chimed in with something they read about taller people finding it easier to get promotions over their shorter counterparts. I shot back with the story of how King Saul the first King of the Jews, was chosen to be the leader because he stood a head taller than the rest of his fellows. It’s those sorts of suseless facts that make you look like a know-it-all.

The flares raged and subsided, but acrid smoke hung in the air, obscuring the moon. First the fire, then the ash. I thought of St. John and Nostradamus.

Movement was soon afoot. One of the taller leader types in the white hat made authoritarian gesticulations and we were soon on our way out of the main site. Withing the crackle and the buzz of radios affixed to various persons surrounding me, I heard talk of heading to the Northern part of the plant, across the highway, well out of the path of the oncoming cloud of mysterious fumes that hung densely in the air like a Satanic fart, straight from the center of the Earth.

We made our way to the main roads and joined the thousands of other tradespeople walking northward. The mass of hydrocarbon refugees moved to the north part of the site across the highway and we watched millions of dollars worth of product disappear into the ether. Some of us wondered how we would get home, with our vehicles stranded inside the plant, while others called their loved ones to let them know of the change of plans expected that evening.

The all-clear was eventually given, even though the flares raged. I’m sure some accountant somewhere in the corporate structure was called in to weigh the costs of employing thousands of workers at double time versus the risk of letting them go and grab their vehicles, lunch boxes and tools. I’m sure that must be how it works.