Breakfast with Roughnecks
Yesterday morning I decided to join the night crew of rig hands when they knocked off at 6am and went to get breakfast as a celebration of a really rough phase of work on the well being completed. It was the right choice for sure.
They picked me up from the rig site, and we carpooled in one of their pickups- me in the middle with my feet on the hump. The restaraunt was called the Huddle House- similar to an ihop, but no pancakes, just waffles. The drive was more than 30 minutes. I don't think we could be further from civilization out on this rig. (except for the ocean I guess... so this is actually an improvement from my last assignment) It was fun to get to know these guys a little better. They are so different from myself and any of my friends back home, but hanging out with them is a good reminder that in plenty of ways they're no different.
The four guys at breakfast all had varying amounts of tattoos. From full sleeves, to knuckle tattoos, to neck tattoos that said "Grandma." They would sometimes stop telling a story as quickly as they started after remembering that "a lady was with them."
They joked and complained about their living quarters. 12 guys living in one trailer... who wouldn't complain? There is a "man camp" not too far from here that is set up for rig hands from wells all around the area to stay. They have a trailer with a pool table and ping pong, but most of the trailers are 6 bunks on one side for the day crew, and 6 on the other for the night crew. One of them feels like he owns the bathroom, and another says he can't sleep at night because of the booger on the wall in his bunk. "You would have to pry it off with a crowbar." (you are all welcome for that.)
These guys move around together, work together, live together, and told stories of saving each others lives when someone was doing stupid stuff. (Like standing underneath the pipe hoist or working on machinery that wasn't locked out.) Most of them are given a nickname by the crew- sometimes a term of endearment, and sometimes evidence of how everyone really feels about them. If you asked them what all their crew members real names were though, not one of them would know. I've met a Kilo, Slugger, Tiny, and Juicebox. On this crew, 3 of the 6 guys claim their name is James. Convenient for me, but none of their coveralls actually say James...
When we started getting close to the restaurant, they started giving a crew member a hard time for his toast preferences. Sure enough- he specified to the waitress that he would not eat the toast if she cut it for him. He is not a child anymore and can eat a full piece of toast just fine.
Ordering was hilarious.
She started with me "I'll have the garden omelette with hash browns."
Next: "I want the biscuits and gravy. But could you add 6 eggs, over easy, on that? And I want 6 extra sausages. And 4 pieces of toast."
The waitress clarified: "The biscuits already come with sausage and bacon."
"Right. That's why I said extra."
Most of the guys went with that order, with variations on the way the eggs were cooked or how they wanted their toast cut. One guy also added ham.
When the food got there, we went from laughing about my mouse problem and watching this, (which perfectly depicts what kind of mouse that I am living with) to silence. Less than 5 minutes later they were scraping their plates clean. Incredible.
Sidenote: It's really fun to bake for these guys, because the appreciation is through the roof. The other day I made a full batch of cookies and brought a plate piled high up to the rig floor. Three minutes later someone was knocking on my door: "Uh.... the pump is working... I... wanted to let you know". "Okay, thanks for that.. Do you want a cookie?" "Yeah! That's actually why I'm here. All the cookies were all gone before I could get to the rig floor." So he grabs as many as he can hold in one hand.
On the way back home, we stopped outside a house in town. There was an old mustang parked outside. One of the James' had been looking for that exact car body for his street racing car. In all seriousness he got out and knocked on the door (at 8am) to ask if the rusting vehicle was for sale.
It wasn't. And we didn't get shot. So it was mostly a success in my book.
I've decided that while this sounds like a rough crowd compared to my usual friends back home, I could hardly be in a safer situation. Roughnecking crews are notorious for their loyalty to each other, (if you start a fight with a roughneck at a bar, you will inevitably fighting the whole crew) and at every rig I've been to, they tell me "we're the best group of guys out here. Some of the other ones will give you trouble. But you just call us and we will come ***** anyone who messes with you." So with at least three crews worth of roughnecks that have my back, I'm beginning to feel like the best protected member of the oilfield.