Oilmen at Sea: Life on South Marsh Island 73

Like stark sentinels, they loom high above the ocean waters, seeming in storm and mist to have been there nearly as long as the sea. They are the thousands of offshore oil platforms that dot the continental shelf of North America. They are the hostile homes of the offshore oil workers, a very tough and particular breed of men. Houston Bureau Chief Leo Janos went to live among them for a time on a platform off the Gulf Coast of Louisiana. His report:

FOR the 42 men who work a 12-hr. shift on it each day, the 20-storied South Marsh Island 73--one of 6,300 oil platforms and drilling rigs stretched across the coastal gulf--is both a punisher and a provider, a harsh, demanding and dangerous mistress. And yet the island gives as awesomely as it takes. Located 103 miles offshore, its pipelines stretch thousands of yards across the ocean floor. Drawing from seven big reservoirs 7,000 ft. beneath the primordial ooze of the gulf, it can pump 28,000 bbl. of crude oil to the mainland each day through its 7-in. pipeline.

South Marsh Island 73's heartbeat is a powerful oil drill rotating 140 r.p.m., pushing 200,000 Ibs. of pipe with 4,000 Ibs. of pressure. There is an omnipresence about its throb and its beat, shaking the two-storied concrete bunkers the men live in, even as they sleep. It rarely ceases. "Ain't enough wind or rain, ice or fog to ever stop that son of a bitch," one crewman observes with grudging respect.

For the unskilled half of the crew, most of whom are Louisiana Cajuns and Mississippi farmers, life on the impregnable, womanless island becomes a monotonous cycle of dirt, grease, curses and the knowledge that tomorrow will be more of the same. The men, known as roustabouts, work and sleep 14 days at a time on the platform before they get a week's rest on shore. They are tired of this life. Many would like to quit. But they cannot. They find themselves trapped by the realization that however torturous the job is, the money is good, better than they could make anywhere else with their meager education, and that the poverty they come from is even more oppressive. So they stay, breaking their backs for $2.50 an hour, dragging 300-lb. sections of pipe and stacking endless 100-Ib. sacks of chemical mud.

Roustabouts or technicians, all are effectively imprisoned on their tight little island. No alcohol, not even beer, is permitted on board. Fighting means immediate dismissal; lateness to a post a severe reprimand. Always, the threat of death or serious injury is with the crew. Two months ago, about 100 miles away on the gulf, a fiery blowout on one platform killed six men and destroyed 20 operating wells. Several veteran roustabouts have fingers missing from accidents. Last September, a roustabout was killed when a 600-lb. section of pipe fell and crushed his skull.

"I never realized that human beings could work this hard," says James Mc-Alister, 22, a Belfast-born roustabout who fled the religious wars of home. "At 6 in the morning, it's dark, wet and cold. You begin sweeping the water from the deck that accumulates from the night's mists. The deck must be kept dry so that the men don't slip and fall. Everything is steel, so a fall can really do damage. Whatever you do, you get filthy. Your hands, your face, your shoes, trousers and shirt become smeared with grease, rust and mud chemicals. I never knew 14 days could take so long." Smiley Dunaway, 55, from Columbia, Miss., who has worked as a roustabout for 20 years, put two boys through college on his earnings. "But it cost me two-thirds of my life on the gulf to do it," he says wistfully.

After work, the men take hot showers, chuck their dirty clothes into washing machines and take off for the chow hall. There are separate menus for the two prevailing cultures on board. The Cajuns get their rice, beans and gumbo and the Mississippians their ham, greens and potatoes. Then they talk sex, watch television or play a Cajun card game called Bouree (pronounced boo-ray). To a visitor, there seems a relaxed camaraderie aboard, as though the men had achieved a kind of brotherhood through suffering. Still, there is no desire by the men to see their experience repeated, particularly in their families.

In the mess hall, a young, rawboned roustabout drains his coffee cup, zips up his waterproof jacket and stands, listening briefly for the fickle north wind that whips cruelly across the gulf this time of year. Then he sighs: "Well, 1 guess it's time to feed my young'uns." Somehow his words sound like a motto for the offshore oilmen.

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