August 28th, 1965, on a drilling rig in the Western Sahara Desert
The rig crew worked most of the night pulling the drill-pipe out of the hole, installing the test tool, and then going back in the hole to set the packer. The packer isolates the zone we are testing. It’s about five thirty in the morning, and the rig crew, Bill, the Esso Engineer, and I are standing on the rig floor waiting for daylight. Because, of high test pressures, sometimes in excess of 5000 pounds, there is always a possibility of a flow line pipe breaking and natural gas or oil spewing out on the rig floor. All testing is done during daylight hour for the aforementioned safety concerns. The engineer gets to make the call, and I’m watching the horizon where the sun will rise above the big red sand dunes that surround the rig.
It’s a little after six when the sun peeks over the biggest dune, and Bill nods, gives a whirl over his head to the driller who is waiting for the signal, and the drill-pipe starts to rotate. At 8510 feet below the surface, the DST tool opens to let in whatever is in the formation flow into the drill-string. Sometimes its saltwater other times it oil or gas and sometimes nothing. I’m holding a little rubber hose connected to the drill string, which will confirm the tool is open by blowing air out into a bucket of water. If something flows into the drill-pipe it will force air out at the surface. Sometimes there are just a few bubbles and that’s always bad news. The sandstone doesn’t have any permeability, and nothing is flowing into the drill string, and it’s almost a certainty to be a dry hole. However, as the driller nods, there is an immediate strong blow, which nearly blows all the water out of the bucket.
“Turn it to the pit!” I yell. Before we started the test a 60-foot section of pipe was run out to the mud pit and under the end of the pipe we put a bucket of oil-soaked rags, which we lit before the tool opened.
“Gas to the surface!” Bill yells. A 20-foot flare of gas shoots out the end of the 60-foot long pipe and there is an immediate “woof”’ as the natural gas ignites burning blue-white flare with an occasional burst of orange flame.
“I think we’re going to get some oil,” I yell to Bill. “That orange in the flare is crude oil!”
But I’m wrong, because an hour later the pressure is 3078 pounds, and the flare is fifty-feet out the flow pipe. The burst of orange flare is gone.
“Damn,” I mutter.
“Looks like it’s mostly dry gas,” says Bill.
“Yeah, and gas is worthless 375-miles from Tripoli.”
&
Another week is behind me now, and I’m really itching to leave this job, but I won’t be leaving today. The Assistant Geologist notified me during morning report that I will be held over another week. When I fly out, I will have been in the desert for 23-days without a break. Not only is it midsummer, but I am in the red sand desert of the Western Sahara Desert, and I think we’re about to set a new world temperature record. I have been suspicious of the old R.C. Cola thermometer that is hanging in the shade by the trailer office. Every time I’ve checked it the reading has been 120 degrees, which is the maximum it can read. This morning before daylight, I’m going to see if it still says 120, then I’ll know it's wrong. It doesn’t cool off as much in this part of the deserts as it does in central Libya where the sand dunes are almost white and reflect the sun, but I know it’s not 120 degrees at five o’clock in the morning.
Well, it’s just under 82 degrees and that’s at five o’clock in the morning before the sun is up. I guess I’ve been dealing with temperatures during the day somewhat north of 120 degrees.
&
I leave tomorrow at 10:30, but before I fly out, I am going to drive about three miles from camp to a wadi (small canyon) where thousands of clear gypsum fossils have weathered out of sandstone and shale formations. These fossils of clear gypsum, which would normally deteriorate in a moist climate, are lying on the ground just waiting to be picked up. Back several million years ago this part of North Africa was a part of the Atlantic Ocean. I had spotted the fossils when I just drove by last week because the gypsum glistens in the sun. When I first spotted them, I drove up and just looking out the Land Rover’s window, I was amazed at the sea shells, coral, and other sea creatures that had been buried on the ocean floor where their skeletons were replaced by gypsum, and now millions of years later they have weathered out of the dry stream bed. I’m going to collect dozens, but I want to collect hundreds of pounds, which I can’t because of the weight. I just hope Alitalia doesn’t have any weight restrictions.
&
Finally, I’m on the old DC-3 again heading back to Benghazi via Tripoli after 23 days on location. The DC-3 lands at the Tripoli airport with plenty of time left for me to make the late Alitalia flight to Benghazi. I’ve just bought another International Herald Tribune to try and catch up on the world news. Heck, we could be in World War III for all I know. The only communication available from any of the drilling rigs are short-wave radio that only connect to the Benghazi Esso Libya Office. When President Kennedy was assassinated I found out about it when I gave my morning report.
&
Well, Alitalia is late again, but what’s new? They should just move the departure forward an hour. Well, they would probably still be late, but now I’m finally on the plane back to Benghazi.
“Would you like a pillow for your head?”
I look up from my newspaper, as a gorgeous Alitalia stewardess puts a pillow behind my head and hands me a glass of good Italian red wine. Gosh it feels so good to just lean back with a glass of great Italian wine, and I have turned the air conditioning vents to blow cold air down on my sun-scorched head.
We’ve just landed and pulled up in front of the old Quonset Hut that is being used as a terminal, and I’m smiling thinking about a surprise I have for Vertis. I haven’t shaved for over three weeks, and I have a rather full black beard. For some reason I put a cowboy hat and boots in my duffle bag, so I’m walking across the landing strip with a pretty full beard wearing dirty blue jeans, a cowboy hat. I’m close now, and she is really giving me the eye. Her first words are, “Richard?—Shave it off, or…!” I’m nodding “Yes” before she finishes the sentence.
Richard H. Mason of El Dorado is a syndicated columnist and author and former president of the Arkansas Wildlife Federation and the state Pollution Control & Ecology Commission. He may be reached by email at richard@ gibraltarenergy.com.