We had an awesome mom who seemed to always lead us in the right direction, and one of those directions was straight to our local church. My brother and I knew better than to try to avoid going. If the doors were open at the church, she was herding us through. I thank God for my mom.
My brother was three years older than I, and buddy, he reminded me of that regularly. I was either getting beat up or tortured. Often during some of our scuffles, he would hold me down; dripping spit over my face and then skillfully slurp it back up, just before the long gross spittle broke off landing on my forehead. You know - showing the brotherly love. There were times when I was able to make him retreat if I could get my hands on a weapon of some kind…a stick, ball bat, hatchet, or oh yeah, the BB gun .
Once, I was sneaking around the house about to take aim at a defenseless red bird sitting on the power line connected to our home, when ole brother grabbed my BB gun. He snatched it so quickly the sight cut my hand. He took aim, killed my bird, turned back around and threw my cherished gun on the ground. He walked off, giggling all the way across the yard toward Granny’s house.
That was it! I slowly cocked my BB gun, took close aim and popped him on the back of the head. Yes, I was in trouble… My brother got carted off to the doctor to get a BB cut out of his head, and if memory serves me, I got my butt tore up. I regret popping him, but that day was a turning point in our relationship. From then on, he used more caution when being hateful to his little brother.
During our woodsy secluded childhood, we didn’t get a lot of company and the highlight of our year was our family reunion. We would all gather down at the camp house located at the creek. Everyone that could play an instrument or sing would join in. The music, smiles, and laughter seemed to never end.
Just up the creek a-ways, our family swimming hole would be full of shivering blue-lipped cousins. The ice-cold spring-fed creek would also keep our floating watermelons a perfect temperature. Even after all these years, I can still remember the sound of guitars and mandolins echoing through that creek bottom.
After all our kin would go home, sadness would always come around. However, it was slowly removed by our dad lining us out on chores or teaching us how to throw a curve ball.
Thinking back over that part of my life I thank God for it, and I wouldn’t have traded it for anything.
As we got older, I learned a few things about my dad that made me understand more clearly, why he was a bit rough around the edges. From all the stories we were told, he had somewhat of a wild childhood, and occasionally that side of him would show up. He was a daylight-to-dark hard worker and he expected us to walk the same road.
To say Dad’s up bringing was rough is putting it mildly. In the dictionary, there’s a word that describes the Cole family, and that word is dysfunctional. I’ll give you a small example: One incident he told us about stands out in my mind. This particular day, Dad’s older brother – who was the oldest of nine kids – was attempting to open, what was known in those days as an icebox. As he did, Grandma Blonnie threw a butcher knife, sticking my uncle in the calf of his leg. She hollered, “Stay out of the icebox!”
After that gesture of affection, my uncle left home and moved to California. Shortly after this family love fest, my dad and one other brother joined the military to get away from the ongoing family battlefield.
Dad told us they were so poor growing up, that sometimes for Christmas, he would get one apple and a box of shotgun shells. When he opened the shells, he was warned that he’d better not waste any on cans or bottles; they were to be used to bring in wild game. Overall, my dad was well liked in the community. He loved his family the best way he knew how, and eventually came to know the Lord on his deathbed.
My brother and I went to school in Dry Prong, a small hick town located in central Louisiana, a few miles south of Black Creek. At this point of my life, everything seemed to be normal until school desegregation came in the picture. Some idiots in Washington decided to bus us way over to Colfax, Louisiana, while having their kids safely placed in private schools. Go figure.
We were forced to attend school where the famous 1873 Colfax Massacre occurred. This was not a place where you would want to even have a school, much less throw kids into this chaotic soup bowl. I know other schools most likely suffered in the same manner, however this particular school struggled for several years before finding a level of peace.
I truly believe we were the test dummies of the seventies. Desegregation took a toll on black and white kids alike. The dropout rate among my classmates during this awful transition was terrible.
Throughout all our trouble during these school years, I came to understand deep down in my heart that God doesn’t care about the color of your skin; it’s the heart that He observes. So, in the midst of so much confusion and deep-rooted hate in our Parish, I personally chose to break this generational curse of division, and to seek out the good in a person’s heart.
Now after so many years have passed and I look back on those troubled times, I know it was my Savior who led me down this path of understanding. He showed me how to love the unlovable.
2
Soggy Bottom of the Gulf
N ow that I missed the small boat of education, I entered into the school of hard knocks. I was a pipeliner for years working in or around the oil & gas industry, when one day I was reading a magazine that had an article about the coolest job in the world: Deep Sea Diver, “Oh yeah, that’s me.”
I got enrolled straight away down in Houston Texas to become certified as a commercial diver. This diving academy is where I went through 18 weeks of rigorous training. Before I knew it, I was standing on the back of a pipeline lay barge ready to jump, with a deep-sea helmet and dive garb, looking like a bad Jules Verne movie.
After gaining skills and becoming a pretty decent diver, I set my sights on getting in on the super deep stuff. That’s where the real money was. However, you didn’t just get a degree, walk out on a barge and say, “I’m here for saturation dives.” I met a few divers that worked for years and never got the opportunity. In some cases, this is due to dive politics - who you know - and in other cases; some divers are simply just not cut out for the work. Well in short, saturation diving was my objective.
I had a long road ahead of me to reach my goal and to prove my capabilities. I worked hard, fast, and got to the point that when it was my turn, I would try to beat everyone’s bottom time, and often did. The less time the lay barge was shut down for a dive, the more the oil company and the barge captain liked it. That meant they wanted you in the lineup more often.
Here’s a glimpse in the life of a diver: One night I was coming up from a pretty normal dive out of a couple hundred feet of water. As I was slowly making my way up, what we called the “down-line,” going through the in water decompression stops… Oh yeah, let me explain a couple things: The down-line is a nylon rope we use to travel on from the barge down to the jet sled that sits on the bottom. The jet sled is used as a huge ditching machine to cut ditch up to ten feet deep on the ocean floor, and it’s attached to the barge by huge cables called Popeye lines. These lines allow the barge to pull the jet sled along the bottom, cutting the ditch for the welded steel oil line to sink down into.
Back to my story; I’m coming up the line very slowly, talking with topside and they’re directing me when to stop for decompression. Each stop would last a few minutes, following the Navy Dive Tables. At this point - around ninety feet deep - I was moving into the light from the barge illumination. Total darkness below, I could hardly see my feet and my upper body had penetrated the light. I was literally hanging on the edge of darkness. It was probably the coolest sight I had ever witnessed, unlike any other dive. The water was so clear, you’d think you could see forever, but underneath my feet, it was as if the light said, “This is where I stop ”.
Let’s talk about the biggest fish in the world. The guys on topside were asking me if I was seeing anything. Well, I had just observed a small
school of Amberjack that had passed by. They caught me off guard because they came from behind and were traveling at a high rate of fish speed. They zoomed by coming within a couple of feet of my head.
I shared my little surprise, what I thought was funny. Funny then turned into - what the heck is that? When I had just settled in on a five-minute decompression stop around 80-feet deep, I witnessed what looked to be a swimming RV camper. I don’t know if it was a Whale Shark or something else; all I know is I quickly realized how small I was, in this huge ocean. Helplessly dangling on a line with this unknown whale of a fish, not moving away but circling me. I immediately ask topside how long I had left on this water stop and also let them know I had just seen the biggest fish in the world. Either it wasn’t hungry, or it was just curious about this small wiggly thing suspended on a line with bubbles coming out of its mouth. I believe the latter, it moved on and I chalked it up as one of the most awesome dives of my career.
I had a buddy that I met back at Dive Academy who kind of adopted me as a big brother. Matt was from Illinois, and let me tell you, he was so funny and witty, you couldn’t help but really like the guy. Matt had a heavy northern accent and didn’t seem to have the skills of someone coming up with a strong work background. This might have been one of the reasons Matt took to me. He saw early on that I was comfortable with physical labor and maybe he felt he could learn from me. I had earned my work ethics from my dad, and it came in handy during our dive operations.
Back at the dive academy, Matt and I were trained in underwater welding, saturation dives, advanced physics, advanced physiology, dive medicine, rescue, advanced rigging and well, you name it; we went through it. Shortly after school, I found myself signing on with a deep-sea diving company, and my little adopted brother Matt followed right along. We both worked for one of the global dive companies located in south Louisiana. However, sometimes work would slow down and I would do a little freelancing on the side with other dive companies, and yes, Matt followed closely behind. I really got used to Matt being around. He turned out to be a pretty good and trusted friend.
3
When Things Go Wrong
M att and I were working on a lay barge installing a 12” steel oil and gas pipeline on the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico. Our working depth was around 170 feet deep when we all learned just how easily things can go wrong.
My diving incident occurred sometime in the middle of the night. I’m not really sure on the exact time; I just remember a galley hand waking me out of a deep sleep, stating, “Hey bud, it’s your turn to dive.” I jumped out of my bunk and began shaking off the sleepy head syndrome. I slowly mosey over to the galley and grab a gallon of hot water that I would use to pour inside my wet suit. The hot water would keep me warm on this winter dive. On my way out of the galley, I snag a hot biscuit and then head out to do my chore.
When I get to the dive shack, the guy running the dive lines me on what I would call a normal run. There were no special details involved, I was to go down while the whole pipe laying operation was on all-stop, at least until the I returned to the surface. This was a safety precaution we tried to follow. It was one safety rule we liked, we didn’t want anything moving down there but the diver, especially in total darkness.
On my dive, I was to check all hydraulics and Popeye lines on our jet sled. Then, crawl over inside the excavation that’s below seabed level, walking down the ditch line away from the barge, checking depth of pipe and depth of ditch. The gas company wanted us to walk back at least three to four pipe joints away from the barge, checking depth of the ditch to ensure proper cover, so that nothing would harm the pipeline as it rests in this seven-foot pipeline grave.
To get a better understanding of how deep and far away from the barge we were working, you could add depth, length of pipe, angle to the sled and be safe to say we were pushing around 450 feet from the barge. Just saying… if a diver should get into trouble at this distance from the surface, you could be in a world of hurt. Now back to the story.
After a bit of small talk with tenders and a couple other divers, we hear the intercom echo across the deck, “Jump diver.” At this point, I quickly pour the gallon of warm water inside my wet suit, while the tender assists me with my dive helmet. He walks me over near the edge, then turns away to check my dive lines insuring nothing is tangled. While he’s busy with a final safety check, my heart begins to race with excitement as I stare down observing the twelve to fifteen-foot seas crashing against the barge. Now in position to jump, this familiar surge of adrenaline continues to grow, taking away all fear. Within the final seconds, I gaze down at the violent sea and whisper a prayer. Lord God, thank you for allowing me to be on such a wild ride. I am in your hands .
I feel the tender’s hand tap me twice on the back; a signal letting me know that everything is a go. At this point, I jump with a 12-foot drop to the water. I splash down and immediately descend, grabbing onto the down line that leads directly to the jet sled. As my speed picks up on the descent, it seems my ears pop every few feet. I continue to feel the minor shock from the decrease in water temperature as I swim through each atmosphere. The illumination from the barge lights begin to fade as I pass through the light penetration level and then, total darkness.
Within a few minutes, I reach my first destination: the jet sled. Upon each dive, I would get a sense of comfort when I arrived at the sled. I really never understood that, but a feeling of peace at this depth was nice. After arriving at the bottom, I immediately begin inspecting the two-story monster. Being totally familiar with this huge underwater ditching machine and all its checkpoints, it would only take a couple minutes to find everything in working order.
4
Trip Down the Ditch
Y ou’re probably wondering why this guy isn’t using a light. We didn’t use lights on most of our dives, because with the jet sled shut down just before a dive, the bottom was so stirred and muddied, handheld lights were useless and just something else to carry. However, to be able to accomplish my task, I would close my eyes and concentrate on where to go, and feel. This was a trick I learned from an old diver, Dee Sautell. He told me if I wanted to get really good and fast in total underwater darkness, to use this technique. He said when you’re standing around on the barge before the jet sled is lowered into the water, just stare at it, then shut your eyes and try to remember where everything is at on the sled. Open, stare a bit more, then close your eyes again, and so on. I remembered what he taught me, and I stuck to this advice - or should I say his wisdom - and it worked. Okay, back to my final task.
After completing my first inspection, I climb down and off the sled. Now standing on the soggy, muddy ocean floor in total darkness, I place my left hand on the machine. While using the sled as a reference, I slowly move toward the open ditch located at the back of the machine. With my eyes tightly shut, I recognize each nut, bolt, and clamp with the touch of my hand. It’s almost as if an old black and white photo is etched in my memory. As I get closer to the seven-foot drop off into the cut ditch, I begin shuffling one foot ahead, hoping I’m on the mark. Suddenly, I’m there, I feel the drop-off with my right foot. Before going any further, I grab the knotted rope hanging off the back of the sled. We use this rope to get in and out of the excavation.
I rappel to the bottom of the ditch, turn and head away from the sled down the ditch line. I continue to communicate with the guys on the surface, letting them know where and what I’m doing. At this point, I advise topside, “I’m ready to start checking depth.” We used what was called a pneumo for this task.
Let me explain how a pneumo works. It is simply an airline connected to a gauge that is used to measure depth. The crew on the surface would apply air pressure through the pneumo, forcing all the water out of the quarter-inch line connected to the diver’s safety harness. I would place the tip of this small hose at each depth checkpoint and then I would tell the guys running the dive topside to shoot the pneumo.
By now, you’re prob
ably wondering, why in the world I would need to know about a pneumo airline. Well hold on to your chair a bit longer, you’ll soon understand.
I’m now positioned on the bottom, below the seabed inside a seven-foot excavation, when I begin to have trouble concentrating. I quickly realize I’m experiencing the first symptoms of nitrogen narcosis. This is a type of sickness that usually occurs around 130 feet deep, and my depth is well beyond that.
The best way I can explain this strange reaction, is you feel drunk or high, and it can be very dangerous. Some divers have been known to freak out to the point of taking off their dive helmet, resulting in death. Others have walked off across the ocean floor completely lost in a mental fog .
At this depth, we would depend on our dive supervisor, who would have to make a decision whether to start using mixed gas to offset this sickness or just monitor the diver and get by with normal breathing air supplied from the surface. I had built up a sort of tolerance or had just come to a point of controlling it, sort a like someone that could hold their liquor better than others could.
Now under the influence of a nitrogen buzz, I head down the pipeline ditch sliding my hand along the surface of the pipe. Each time I would feel a shrink sleeve located at the weld or pipe connection; I knew I had moved another 40 feet away from the jet sled. Upon feeling each connection, I would report back to the surface and say, “SHOOT PNEUMO”.
Scars of My Guardian Angel Page 2