The Helldivers' Rodeo: A Deadly, X-Treme, Scuba-Diving, Spearfishing, Adventure Amid the Off Shore Oil Platforms in the Murky Waters of the Gulf of Mexico

by Humberto Fontova

  Still in no hurry, Pelayo finished off his Bud with a thunderous belch and started peeling the wrapper off a Twinkie. Paul sat on the bow, disco-suited, Bud in hand, staring glumly at the swells. I stared blankly at the ugly dark horizon ... some flashes in the distance. Tom kept looking around, from us to the water, to the rig, to the lightning flashes, then back, feigning calmness, his eyes asking: "Well ... ? We're here, aren't we? We're suited up. Now what?". But his mouth was mum.

  Pelayo noticed him. "Sit back and stare," He growled at him. "We got plenty time . . . rest up. Grab a bite . . . or a beer." Masticated Twinkie bits shot from his mouth. Finally he gulped. "I know you're a tofu and bean sprouts man, but grab some high energy stuff, some quick-burning fuel." He peeled back the wrapper and finished off the Twinkie with one massive bite, stuffing it in with his muscular electrician's fingers. White goo clung to his mustache. "You need energy for these dives," he mumbled while swallowing. "Quick energy, fast burning carbos, my man. None of that slow shit like carrots. You need quick bursts of energy down there ... to dodge dem hammerheads."

  Paul was chuckling silently from the bow, making eyes at me and pointing at Tom. Yep, time to give him The Routine. Every diver we introduce to the rigs gets it-with both barrels. And Tom was fresh meat served up on a silver platter. He'd been in New Orleans for two Years now, seen Mardi Gras from a Bourbon Street balcony. He'd read about three rig-diving fatalities in the Times Picayune. He'd attended a dive club meeting and come away stuttering. He was ripe for The Routine.

  "Those bastards are fast, man." Pelayo continued. "You'd never think an animal that big-a fifteen-foot, two-ton monster like that-could be so fast. But you'll see. So you gotta get the angle on 'em." He licked his mustache and fingers. "But just for a short burst. Just to duck into the middle of the rig. See those pipes there?" Pelayo turned his head and pointed with his chin towards the middle of the platform where a cluster of pipes formed a rectangle. A huge swell broke through them with a head of ugly brown bubbles. Then came the wave's trough, sucking out the water and exposing a hideous array of rust and barnacles. "See them?"

  "Yeah, Yeah," Tom was trying to smile, but his face looked like a driver's license photo. "Sure, I see 'em."

  "See how close together they sit? About two feet, right? Well, they stay like that all the way to the bottom-that's five hundred feet down." Pelayo's face was rigid. "You'll barely fit between 'em with your tanks." Pelayo made the motion with his body, hunching his shoulders like squeezing through bars.

  "The hammerheads we got out here," he said, "their heads are about four feet across." Pelayo spread his arms wide, looking from hand to hand and pursing his lips. "Those heads won't even fit through dem pipes. But they'll try. The stupid suckers always try. Banging that big ugly head into the pipes. Bong! Bong! Bong!"

  Pelayo was demonstrating, holding up two arms and smashing his head against them like a bull against a picador's horse. "Just like on those shark shows, like those stupid great whites. They keep banging that cage. The camera guy shitting on himself, ducking into the corner and all. Well, here, that hammerheadhe'll be tearing off barnacles, opening his mouth, banging away. The pipes'll probably be shaking. All kinda shit-but don't worry." Pelayo looked straight at Tom, not smiling. Now his eyes light up a little. "He can't get through." Pelayo shrugged and licked his mustache. "Only little ones can make it through. The little eight and ten footers. And there's very few of those out here. You gotta remember: Sharks are cannibals. They'd just as soon eat another shark as a dolphin, sea turtle, or a manta ray. So, those little ones stay away from this area, or they get eaten. So, don't worry."

  Paul was losing it, sitting on the bow doubled over but silent, his torso quivering. Pelayo still kept a straight face. And Tom looked like he'd been plugged into a light socket.

  "If you're too far from the middle of the rig, Tom?" Paul blurted, recovering his composure. Tom jerked his head around. "If you think you can't make it? If you're sure he'll grab you before you can reach those pipes? Here's what I like to do." Tom's lips were quivering. "Sometimes the real big ones charge up from below, out of the bottom murk. Sometimes from above. Always from your blind side. If you're stalking a fish or pulling one off the shaft, you don't always notice that huge shadow lumbering through the murk above you-until he's right over. Then you notice that it's dark."

  "But it's hard to tell," Pelayo blurted. "Cause it's pretty damn dark down there anyway. Ain't much sun penetrating through sixty feet of murk. Ever seen those videos of the Titanic on the ocean floor?"

  Tom flinched. "Yeah! Um ... sure, I think so."

  "It ain't that dark, but close. Then you'll notice it gets suddenly darker, where you can't even see your air gauge."

  "But hell," Paul said. "That could also be a hundred-foot supply boat rumbling up to the rig with his six foot propellers churning away, blocking out the sun ... " Paul looked around. "There! See it?" He pointed towards a supply boat about a half-mile away, chugging towards a nearby rig. Tom jerked his head around and nodded jerkily." That's what I'm talking about." Paul said.

  "Sure," Pelavo added. "But, Tom, after a while you'll learn to distinguish the rumble of a supply boat from the rumble of the rig's compressors or from the roar when a pipe blows and starts spewing hydrogen sulfide ... 'cause you don't wanna surface when a supply boat's up there."

  "Or even come close to the surface," Paul whistled. "Those things," and he pointed at the boat again, "have five foot propellers. Two thousand horsepower. They'll suck you right in from fifty feet down . . . "

  "And mince you like celery in a Popil's Veg-o-Matic." Pelayo blurted, his arms outstretched and going up and down, mimicking the process. Then he looked over at Paul and me. Tom followed his gaze, jerkily, wide-eyed.

  Finally he broke. "Look guys," Tom smirked. "Wait a minute now. I mean ... what about dive flags? I mean, that's pretty standard. I mean, don't ... ?"

  "A joke," Pelayo blurted. "Those boats ignore them. Or can't see them." Tom kept looking around, trying to smile. Searching desperately for a smile back, or even a hint of one.

  "Half of those captains are drunk," Paul said. "See all those dents on those pilings?" Paul pointed to the docking area on the platform. It wasn't just dented, but cratered, a rusty gaping hole in the middle beam. "It's a wonder any of these platforms are still standing." he said. "The way those big boats ram them. Those captains are seeing double half the time."

  "Or hallucinating," Pelayo added. "On-the-Ball and I worked on supply boats plenty summers." They looked at each other nodding seriously. "Damn good money."

  "But damn dangerous work." Pelayo added. "You're surrounded by drunks and dope fiends and criminals, twenty-four hours. These are the guys that used to join the French Foreign Legion. They're crazy, man. They'll go sideways on ya in a heartbeat, especially the captain. He stays up for two and three day stretches at a time, popping pills. When he grabs the bottle of black jack-watch out."

  "Remember," Paul snapped. "There's no law out here. He's the law. Or he thinks he is. We had to call the Coast Guard once. The captain and first mate were waving .357 magnums around, raving drunk on the bow, shooting porpoises."

  "That's terrible!" Tom shrieked. "I can't believe that! What kind of...?"

  "They were feeding them hot dogs," Paul continued. "Throwing 'em off the bow, then when the porpoises came upyou know how friendly they are."

  "Sure," Tom said. "I dove with them in the Bahamas. They're wonderful, real playful."

  "Right," Paul snapped. "They'd come rolling on the surface with that smile of theirs, then-BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! They'd empty that cannon on them, every cylinder, whooping and hollering and rebel-yelling, as the water turned red and the big gray corpses just sank, quivering, pouring blood from three or four holes."

  Tom looked on the verge of a crack-up, "I can't believe ANYONE would ... !"

  "We got pissed at them," Pelayo snarled. "The bastards!"

  "Well I guess SO!" Tom gasped. " Anybody'd do that, hell
, they deserve ..."

  "The bastards wouldn't give us a turn!" Pelayo snorted and rolled his eyes. "They were hogging the guns-just like a captain to do that."

  "Oh, come on!" Tom wailed. Don't tell me you'd ...

  "Maybe not," Paul said. "Maybe not at the dolphins, but when the water turned red, the sharks showed up. Don't take long out here."

  "That's when the fun really started," Pelayo nodded. "The mate went inside and got his M-1 Carbine with the banana clip. Put it on fall-auto, my man: BLA-A-A-A-A-A-M!! Emptied it into that school of sharks in five seconds flat. Water was boiling, churning white and red. Shoulda seen that commotion! "

  "We saw our chance," Paul said, while they were reloading. We ducked inside and called the Coast Guard on the radio. We told them we had an emergency on board. They were alongside in half an hour in ninety-foot cutter."

  "With the water cannon aimed and loaded," Pelayo added. "Gave a few blasts of water over the bow to make themselves clear, then boarded. The mate was raving, drooling drunk by then, cursing at em, waving the gun around ... they maced him."

  "I mean hosed him down good." Paul laughed. "His eyes swelled up like ping-pong balls. He was red, choking and puking as they swarmed over him with the nightsticks. Wound up with a concussion. The captain tried to hide but they pulled him from a closet by his beard, whacked him on the head, neck and shoulders with billies, and hauled him off in a chokehold. We heard he was hoarse for a week afterwards.

  Tom just nodded disgustedly. "I can't believe ... I just can't."

  "Anyway, Tom," Paul continued. "When you see a big shark and he's acting hungry, look around for some big cut-off pipes. See those big ones?" He pointed towards the corner of the platform, where discharge of some type was flowing from a pipe into the filthy waves.

  "See 'em?" Tom nodded wearily. "This very rig, in fact, has a couple beams cut off at about a hundred feet." Paul said. "Mewhen the big hammerheads burst upon the scene-I like to duck into those pipes feet first. The pipes are about three feet across so you'll just fit into them with your tank." Paul poked his arms down straight against his torso and made the motions. "But you don't wanna go in head first, might not be able to back out." Paul rolled his eyes and let out a low whistle. "Especially if ... "

  "Big wolf eels, Tom." Pelayo blurted from the bow. "Ever seen one?"

  Tom looked over, his eyes still tense, but curious now, still trying to smile. Not sure what to make of all this. "No. No don't think so," he said smiling. "Seen some morays down in Belize though. Even petted them. Got some pictures. They're ... "

  "You don't wanna pet a wolf eel." Pelayo quipped. "No way ... you don't wanna go near one. Don't even spear them."

  "They're kinda like a moray." Paul continued. "In fact, I think they're a giant subspecies of moray. Dr. Thompson, a marine biologist at LSU, told me they were."

  "But they're bigger." I blurted.

  "And meaner!" Paul gasped while arching his eyebrows and nodding.

  "Much bigger and much meaner!" Pelayo continued. "They're a deep-water fish. You find them here 'cause we're so close to the continental shelf. Chris, that crazy bastard, speared one a coupla years back out here-got him right through the head, fortunately. Stoned him. Shouda seen the fish clear a path as he carried it up. I mean even the black-tip sharks were streaking off. They know. That thing stretched out to almost ten feet. Body looked like a flattened truck inner tube. Teeth like the monsters from Aliens. Ugly thing man, creepiest thing I ever saw."

  Tom looked worried, and confused. "I've never heard ... "

  "They're usually near the bottom." Paul said. "They eat lobsters and spiny oysters. They just crush them to mush with those teeth and jaws."

  "Thee also live in those pipes," Pelayo quipped. They like the darkness, the murk, which is why I said don't go in head-first. They grab you in the face or neck and you're in big trouble. Their teeth are like a moray's but bigger, more like a barracuda's"

  "But a barracuda's don't curve back," I said. "These curve back like a moray's or a snake's fangs. Once they grab-CHOMP!" I made the motions with my hand on my arm. "There ain't no getting away." I tugged on my bicep to mimic the effect. "You're better off in the jaws of a pit bull."

  "Or a Nile crocodile." Pelayo huffed. "Good thing you saw Bob's bubbles coming outta the pipe that day, huhn, On-the-Ball? He'd still be down there."

  "Good thing indeed." Paul said with a mock shudder. "Geezus, how could I forget? That big tiger shark showed up and I headed up."

  "Me too," Pelayo said, whistling slowly and nodding. "Bob was right by the pipe. He'd seen a big grouper duck into it when the shark lumbered up outta the bottom murk, almost right under him. Scared the hell outta him. Guess so. When Bob saw it, that monster was ten feet away from him. Christ, we panicked and we saw it from across the rig. Looked like a submarine. Anyway, Bob ducked into the pipe, feet first."

  "Yeah," I said. "He'd come down well after us so he had plenty air left. But a half hour later he hadn't surfaced so Paul suited up and went back down-with the bang-stick, just in case. I had some bottom time left. Left Chris and these bozos," Paul pointed towards Pelayo and me, "on board with their bottle of Jack Daniels. So I get down there and see his line of bubbles coming from the pipe, and his spear gun poking out. I swim over, look in, and almost fainted.

  "Bob was looking straight up at me. His eyes looked like cue balls-wild, crazy, he starts thrashing around, banging the spear gun around. He's screaming through his regulator. 'BRRRRULL!-BRUUUUL!!' Bubbles going every way. He was trying to say something, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out what.

  "But it was obvious he was stuck. So I grab his arm and start pulling-and pulling-and PULLING! Something's got him good! He's still screaming, bubbles flying. He's carrying on like crazy. I finally get him to where his hands are at the lip of the pipe and he grabs hold-dropping his spear gun in the act. Then I drop the bang stick . . . couldn't grab either in time. Guess they're still down there, at four hundred and eighty feet. Anyway, now with him pulling for all he's worth and me helping by grabbing his arms we're making progress. He's coming up-slowly. We're fighting against something strong, man. He's inching up slowly, a little more, just a little-and I see he's naked below the waist!"

  Tom laughed nervously, looking around at each of us. Looking for a cue. But we're poker-faced.

  "Well, he comes up further and I see his disco pants all balled up around his fins! His white ass is all red and scratched from barnacles and urchins. Then I see the freaking eel! His head anyway-looked like something straight outta Aliens, man. That mouth locked on the bell-bottoms trying to pull Bob back down and drown him!"

  "Wolf eel you say?" Tom rasped. "Don't think I've ...

  "And a big one! I'll never forget THAT, man. Turns out Bob had ducked into the pipe when the shark approached. He said the shark circled a few times then lumbered off. So Bob starts coming out-but can't. Something's got him-got him by the leg, by his pants leg. And that polyester's strong man, wasn't tearing or giving. He could feel some creature tugging against him like a monster pit bull. So he knew it was a fish of some type.

  "So naturally he's starting to panic. But being in that pipe-in that tight fit- he couldn't reach down to stab it or to cut his pants or even to see it or anything. So he's really panicking. His air's going fast, remember. He's down at eighty-five feet. So he finally unbuttons his pants and unbuckles his weight belt. The belt drops but the pants can't get past his fins. And he can't bend down to take them off. So hers stuck! And his air's going fast."

  "Oh man!" Tom nods. "That sounds. . . "

  "Then I show up. And help pull him out. But I'll be damned if I'm putting my hands down there to take his fins off with that thing's head down there. And the eel still had his tail wrapped around something inside the pipe. Only a foot of him was outta the pipe. He wasn't budging any more. We're in a hell of a fix. I look at Bob's air and he's below five-hundred lbs. We gotta do something here-and fast."

  Tom was ra
pt by now. Like a little kid listening to a ghost story around the campfire. No sign of incredulity.

  "So I take out my knife," Paul continues "and Bob goes nuts again, screaming again and bubbles everywhere. He's panicking-I don't blame him. I motion that all's cool, nodding my head, giving the OK signal. But I didn't wanna stab the freakin' thing. I was afraid it might let go of Bob, then grab me. Finally I had no choice but to put my hands down there. I reached down and started cutting the strap on his fin. The wolf eel's jaws were about a foot away as I cut. So I was nervous. But Bob's air was down to two-hundred-and-fifty and his regulator was howling with every breath. We had to get with it. Finally the strap gives. Bob kicks it off and the pants and the eel goes with it.