Northern North Sea · 6 min read
The Storm of '93
Riding out a once-a-decade storm on a flotel, with three divers still down and the wind climbing.
“The sea reminded us that day who was in charge.”
Forty-foot seas, three divers still down, and a wind that climbed past anything the forecasts had drawn. We held station, we got them up safe, and nobody on that flotel ever forgot what the North Sea can do when it decides to.
The weather window closes
The forecast had given us six hours. We got three. By the time the supervisor called the abort, the surface vessel was rolling fifteen degrees and the umbilicals were singing in their fairleads. We hit the bell and locked in with the storm already on top of us.
“We locked in with the storm already on top of us.”
Inside the bell
A bell in heavy weather is a strange machine. It wants to swing. The tethers want to twist. You sit on the bench, breathe slowly, and trust the hands on the surface who are fighting the winch and the winds at the same time. There is nothing to do but be calm and useful.
The crew who held the line
I came home that week because of the people topside — the supervisor, the LST, the winch operator who never let the cable run away from him. The dive industry remembers names. I remember theirs, and I owe them the rest of my life.
“I owe them the rest of my life.”