That would be Bob Purple Bullet  Mercer...

Some of the guys that worked with Epic back when Pie was running it liked to come up with nicknames for everyone. I believe Ray Lord and Jim Minke were usually the instigators. I already told you about "The Fly". We also had "Asleep at the Wheel" and "Young Man Afraid of Sharks". Initially, I understand I was called "Silver Bullet" but never to my face. This had nothing to do with beer and was more based on the fact that I was sort of a "Lone Ranger" and I was always first at the dock and worked quickly in the water.

...yep, there I was in 20' of water sandbagging a pipeline crossing. My tender was nicknamed "The Fly" short for The Flying Fuqua. He was a young kid at the time (must have been around 1980 or so) To understand what kind of guy this joker was, let me tell you how he got his name.

     So, a brief recap of the weekend. It started out innocently enough;a gallon of Stoli vodka, a bottle of Jack, case of Coors Light, one bottle of Makers Mark, and way too many divers and tenders to be in a public place at one given time. I knew something was afoot, when in the first 35 minutes of the pool side extravaganza I noticed a quarter gallon of stoli was missing. Strange coincidence? I think not. Me and queen of the cocktails, Brena (aka-miss vodka), were simply trying to prove vodka was as necessary as air and that too truly appreciate raspberry cranberry you need vodka. As each second passed, more and more showed up, as if they had caught the sent of the alcohol seeping from our pores. The mad frenzy soon began. There’d be no salvation today, only torn muscles, broken toes, tenders falling off bar stools, thunderous lighting, monsoon type winds and a constant cry,”I'm here to party!”

We were loading up for a job Monday and had the dive spread loaded up in the company pickup(said F350). When the truck was ready for the trip to the dock I began loading my own gear from my own pickup that was parked about across the lot, about twenty feet away. Since I was the dive supervisor I didn't really need to bring it, we were only going on a simple job to pick up some sensor packages for NOAA, just one day diving off of our crew boat. I usually bring my gear just in case though, you never know.

    Friday afternoon in the old instructors office at DIT was usually a place where the shit flew thick and fast until we were let go at 16:15. The Friday that this happened was my next to last at the school since I had gotten on the wrong side of the owner at the time, so as soon as enrollment was low, he laid me off; which was better than being fired.

     My last rotation Offshore was a real eye opener and learning experience. I've always been the kind of diver that believed that the “The more you know, the longer you’ll live.” These words have kept me alive though sat dives, pipeline penetrations, deep water inspections, even underwater demolitions!
     I remember getting a call from a buddy that went and got married and wanted me to work his rotation offshore, off New Jersey.

     The North Sea on average is one place where diving is a very series business. You have to be certified by IMCA who, for a fee, will give training as well as written, oral, and practical exams to certify divers for commercial diving in the North Sea. Most diving companies will send their divers for such training or hire an instructor to train and certify their divers.
     About 15 years or so ago I received my training in Aberdeen, Scotland, it was the longest and toughest 6 weeks of training I ever had. It got me into the best shape of my life both physically and mentally. The training pretty most prepared me for every aspect of Saturation diving in the North Sea, So after my training I was now a Certified Saturation Diver, International.

     So there I was... a brand new tender in the Gulf of Mexico straight out of dive school thinking I was on top of the world. I was a new worker for an outfit in Morgan City, going through my paper work and certifications, when the day comes to go get my physical.

     It was June 1979; I was one year out of college and a graduate of the Diver's Training Academy of Florida, this was my first trip to the Gulf and I was both scared and excited as the chopper landed on the pad on front of Taylor diving and salvage, one of the largest diving contracting firms.
     My gear that consisted of two duffel bags and a hard wooden box I put together for my Kirby 10. I was just a tender and didn't think I wasn't going to get my feet wet, but I wanted to be prepared. I loaded my gear into the back of the chopper and we took off for an oil rig and production platform about 150 miles out in the Gulf of Mexico where most of the oil exploration is done in the United States.  Almost one and a half hours in the air and there was the rig. Wow. We were touching down; after only seeing the photos in text books I was really here, I was actually on the landing pad of an oilrig. I reported to dive master and received 10 pairs gloves, a safety hat, a safety harness, and life jacket.

No idea who wrote this or if it's even real. The jellyfish in the ass debate persists. Might be possible. So, written by the anonymous "Brian" and submitted for your reading pleasure by S Terry.

Hey, sis…

Just another note from your bottom dwelling brother. Last week, I had a bad day at the office. Before I can tell you what happened to me, I first must bore you with a few technicalities of my job. As you know, my office lies at the bottom of the sea. I wear a suit to the office. It’s a wetsuit. This time of year, the water is quite cool, so what we do to keep warm is this. We have a diesel-powered industrial water heater. This $20,000 piece of shit sucks the water out of the sea and heats it to a delightful temperature. It then pumps the water down to the diver through a garden hose, which is taped to the air hose. Now, this sounds like a damn good plan, and I’ve used it several times with no complaints.

     In 1985 I was a consultant to SubSea International on a Western Oceanic UWILD. It was a 90’ for :30 no “D” dive. It was about 4:00 PM and the seas were running around 5 to 7 ft. I took the stage down from the deck of a jack up. Popped down to 90 feet and began water blasting (20KPSI/10GPM) one of the legs for NDT (MT). The current was a little swift, maybe a knot. I purchased myself and hose including the water blaster on one of the chords. Vis was 0-2 feet. After a while, I kind of felt 30 minutes was up. Then the air ran out.

      I was offshore for S&J Diving Company in High Island block something or another in about 110 fsw. We had recently broken out a well liked tender and it was his turn in the water. We were performing a class 3 inspection on a 6 legged platform.  We were grit blasting the nodes just before the eventful dive happened.

     It was after sunset and the weather was perfect.  We were all happy about a good job going well with decent depth and great visibility.  I was on standby with Brad Carter supervising.  We had the Diver on bottom about to video some weld, we were ready to make progress, and things were good.

     We were watching the video commenting on the corals when a bloodcurdling scream comes out of the dive radio at max volume along with an urgent message that went something like this --- AAIIEEIIAA!! Up on the Diver, they’re eating me, there’s a thousands of them, up on Diver, up on Diver, IIIEEEAAAAIIIIII!!!

     Well by the time the first “up on Diver” comes out I’m rushing out of the dive shack and bumping into a deck hand yelled at him – “Get a first aid kit, some help, and come to the back deck, NOW”. I rush to the back deck and about this time the Diver is on deck and de-hatting.  I look him over real good expecting to see blood everywhere and body parts missing.   He’s of breath, wild-eyed, and can only speak in short spurts.

     “Oh God I thought I was going to die, there were millions of these tiny fish. They just kept pelting me hard like someone threw gravel real hard at me”.  “I thought they were eating me”.

     No blood, no limbs missing, not even a tear in the overalls.  Everybody out there on the deck expecting a major catastrophe was simply astonished.  Our tough, macho, heavily muscled breakout diver was reduced to a blithering *** by a school of baitfish being chased by something.  We all had a good laugh which continued every time someone brought up the subject,  which was pretty often considering the nickname – Blenny Bait got attached to the diver who suffered the attack.  Two weeks later he went to work for CalDive. Wonder if they call him Blenny Bait.

     Reminds me of the time a trigger fish tried to eat my fingers.

     I had the pleasure of being woken up on a crewboat out in the Pemex oilfields near ciudad del carmen mexico a few years back by the harsh roll of side seas somewhere in the 8-10 foot range.  I should have known something wasn't right when my ride was three hours late at the airport, or at least when he led me past five sunken relics in the harbor before leaving me tired and jetlagged on the raggedy old jet boat by my lonesome.  I was too green to see the light and too tired to care, so after a few hours of fitful sleep I sit up to see the dark cabin packed with Mexican nationals eyeing me because I'm the only guy taking up four seats.  I stumble up on deck into another world.

     The dark windy night and rough seas don't even really catch my attention, it's the huge platform city with 10 story fires burning off the end of every available flareboom.  It was like a scene from starwars with all the big scary vessels and platforms swinging personell off the deck in the harsh orange firelight.  What makes it really surreal is that the deck is packed, standing room only, the deck lights are out, and pitching around like a loose roof in a tornado.  I was feeling about as overwhelmed and detracted as a fly on an elephants ass when the guy next to me turns and pukes over the rail, straight into the wind, and I smell and feel a steady rain of gut chunks bounce off the side of my face.

     Man did that incident make an impression.

     On quiet mornings, when the air is just right, I can still smell the tang of that guy's breakfast. 

     Several years ago, I learned that a nearby coastal aquarium had an old diving bell that it was going to scrap. It had been donated to the aquarium by a former employee of the old Perry Oceanographics company but it was never placed on display.  I thought it might make a good display for the museum in my home town and luckily, I got to the aquarium a day before the scrap metal dealer.  The aquarium director was happy for me to take it.  It turned out to be a two-man bell called a "Sea Kite", which was designed to be towed behind a vessel at slow speeds.  It had a stainless steel hatch, view ports, a gas supply system, two diving planes, and was painted yellow. Both, the bell and the trailer it sat on, were rusty due to sitting near the beach for so long.

     I got a lot of funny looks while towing it for almost five hours to get to the museum.

     I stopped to gas up my SUV in a small town and a crusty old timer walked up to the trailer and said, "You must work for NASA  'cause I know that there thang is one of them space capsules.  I seen pictures of 'em."

     Well, I was tired and did not feel like going into a long explanation so I said yes, that I did work for NASA, and I was taking it to a museum.

     The old dude walked over to the bell, slapped the side of it with his hand and said as he walked away, " Damn thangs shor git rusty up in space."

No shit, there I was on the B. This is one of H's barges and it is the worst one in the Gulf.  There are a few things you can be expected to see and do one this gem, as the unfortunate souls that have been on this barge will tell you:

1. Lose at least 10 lbs; it feels weird when your body eats it self. 

2. Pee out of your ass; this dose not stop when you get off
the barge - expect at least 2 weeks of this sensation on the beach (bring on the baby powder). 

3. See things that will make your safety guy quit his job.

     A tourist walked into a pet store and was looking at the animals on display. While he was there, a petroleum engineer from a nearby office walked in and said to the storekeeper, "I'll take a rig hand monkey please."
     The storekeeper nodded, went to the side of the store, and took out a monkey. He put a collar and leash on the animal and handed it to the engineer, saying, "That'll be $2000." The man paid and left with the monkey."
The surprised tourist went to the storekeeper and said, "That was a very expensive monkey. Most monkeys are only a few hundred dollars. Why did that one cost so much?"
     The storekeeper answered, "Ah, that's a rig monkey. He can rig up, plan rig moves, rewind motors, tail pipe, paint, pull maintenance, all with no back talk or complaints. It's well worth the money."
The tourist then spotted a monkey in another cage. "That one's even more expensive!! $10,000 !! What does it do??" he asked.
     Oh, that one" replied the storekeeper. " That's a Rig Manager monkey. It can instruct at levels of maintenance, run the safety program, deal with clients, and even do some paper work. A very useful monkey indeed."
     The tourist looked around a little longer and found a third monkey in a cage. The price tag was $50,000.
     The shocked tourist exclaimed, "This one costs more than all the others put together !!. What in the world can it do??".
     Actually," said the shopkeeper, "I've never actually seen him do anything except drink beer and play with his dick, but his papers say he's a Company Man."

     ...where he stayed while hanging in Singapore looking for work & he will probably say the "Mitre Hotel."
     The Mitre was a run down shanty of a lodging house ( its still operating today & may have seen renovations since 85' ) sitting on some very prime real estate in central Singapore. During my time there the hotel was run by an endearing Chinease family, headed by the ubiquitous "Mr. Lim". Gracious & friendly, he would take care of your daily needs, which mainly involved serving ice cold beer in the hotel's main lobby. It was at this bar that an eclectic assortment of sea dogs, scurvy divers, aging hippies, struggling jazz musicians & any number of other intrepid wanderers would gather to tell stories & debate the issues of the day.

    Having lived in the Pacific Northwest all my life, I thought I had seen some pretty bad weather in my life. I have been taught a lesson in what bad weather really is though a few times though since my decision to pursue a career as an offshore diver. Back in February, we were working off the M/V Hammerhead for Tiburon Divers. This was before the boat had its four point anchor set up, and we were tying up to the platforms we were doing the level 3 inspections on. We had a very safe and knowledgeable crew, the boat crew was great, our supervisor was a 20 year veteran of offshore diving and was a laid back, but no bullshit kind of guy. It was a good hitch for inexperienced tenders that we were, and we learned a lot. One of which was just how bad the weather can be in the south. We had it in our heads that we would be working in tropical, sun filled days, diving in warm water year round, and that the only storms we would see would be tropical storms and hurricanes. Boy could we not have been more wrong!
    The sky’s were grey and the wind was blowing 10 knots for days at a time. Rain gear was pretty much worthless and should have been called wind gear, as that’s the only weather it kept you from. The wind and rain has never really bothered me though, even today after that job. But what I learned is just how powerful the sea can be. We got the word to secure the deck for travel, as the 5-7s were supposed to continue for the next week and we couldn’t dive. So the three of us tenders went through the gear on deck making sure the gear wasn’t going to come loose and fall off the boat while underway. The deck had wooden planks on it so we couldn’t weld the gear down like we wanted to. What we did was chain the equipment down to the pad eyes near the sides of the boat on the port and starboard sides and while underway we would chain the equipment to each other across the deck. Well we had chained them up first this time because the equipment was starting to shift around a little. As I was coiling the cable from the mesotech into its box, the waves that were drenching the deck from the stern kept pushing the box up the deck away from me. I finally got the damn cable in (it never wants to go in right anyway regardless of weather) and was walking up the deck to secure my next thing when my fellow tenders mentioned politely to me that I should look behind me. So I casually did thinking I had left something on the stern I should have put away when I saw it…
    Everything happened in an instant. The wave coming up the deck at me was about two foot off the top of the deck and had ripped the dive hose we had coiled in a figure eight and tied to the chamber with quarter inch polypro rope. The hose, in the wall of water, was coming at me that it was all I could do to but brace myself for it. I have been told that when I looked back at my co-workers the shear look of terror ( I call it surprise) was enough to put them on their asses in laughter. Well the hose and water hit me, hit me low and took out my legs from underneath me. If you know me, you know one of my defining characteristics is that I am six foot six tall and 180 lbs. As I was falling backwards expecting a collision between my ass and the deck, it never happened. My body became a sort of surf board riding the wave and hose. However my ride was short lived as the chains we had put up stopped the hose from going any farther up deck and making somewhat of a lake, dammed by the dive hose. And I was swimming in the middle of it trying to find which way was up. When I emerged, everyone was looking with wide eyes at me, and half smiles on their face. No ones face was lit up more than mine though. With a big smile (probably from insanity) I got to work untangling the hose from chain and securing the deck. After finally having everything secured, we (the tenders) got to go take our cold showers and hit our racks for the 14 hours ride in. I have yet to see anything compare to that day yet, with the exception of the white out squall that took us by surprise on the Great White, But that’s another story….I love my job!

    In 1997 I was a tender on Global’s derrick barge Sea Constructor. There was another tender that very closely resembled one of the divers except that he was about a foot shorter. From a distance it was difficult to tell them apart, unless they were standing side by side.On this barge we had several new riggers that had never been around diving before. They were particularly interested in the deck chambers.
    One afternoon the tall diver I mentioned was up to dive. He sat around dressed in for a while before the dive was cancelled for whatever reason – don’t remember anymore. The riggers were milling around on deck but shortly before the dive was cancelled, they were called away to work on one of the anchor winches. Not too long after that we did have to make a dive but it was a simple one and the Dive Sup decided to dive a tender. It just happened to be the short tender that resembled the diver.
    Well, the dive goes great and we pick up our tending colleague and put him in the can. The riggers have by now finished with their anchor winch and one of them comes over to have another look at the deck chamber. The operator explains to him that it was to decompress the diver and with that, the rigger looks in the port. He just stands there and stares. After a few seconds he turns around and points at the port.
    “That’s that diver in there?” he asks, and the tender nods yes.
    “Ho-lee-shit,” says the rigger, “how long till he’s full size again?”

    T'was the summer of 82', & I was working as a diver in support of offshore oilfield drilling operations in the Beaufort Sea. A typical crew rotation would have me offshore 4-6 weeks at a time, sometimes longer. Time ashore was never guaranteed, though we hoped for a week to ten days; invariably, something would go wrong & all hands would be called back to deal with the problem(s).
    I had been ashore for 2 days after a 7 week stint on the drillship when early one morning I dropped by my employer's office to pick up a paycheck. Dressed in my "soon to be out on the town" finery, I had a full day of running around to do prior to hooking up with a certain sweet barmaid who'd promised to make me forget I was a fish.
    With a spring in my step & a song on my lips
    I sashayed in to grab my check & run. After some quick hello's to the guys in the shop I made a bee-line for the door & was more than halfway to freedom when the familiar boom of my boss's voice echoed like a death-knell in my ears:
    "Dan, come on in here a minute!" he bellowed.
    "Can't boss, gotta run..." I said.
    "Not so fast, Diver...got a little job for you" he commanded.
    No good could come of this. The kick about being a working diver is understanding when work calls...you work; no if's, and's or butt's. Say no, & your name goes to the bottom of the call-out list, an unenviable & poverty-inducing place to be.
    "C'mon Boss, I'm only 2 days ashore & time is short..." I pleaded.
    "No problem, just a quick jump & you'll be back in your disco-suit & on your way!", he promised.
    "But I don't have my gear with me," I tried.
    "No problem, the boys out back'll fix you up...have a good dive!”
    Now understand, divers love to set you up at every opportunity, so it was unnerving to find the boys had all the gear for the job loaded out & ready to roll when I trudged dejectedly back into the shop.
    "Not to worry mate, got her all ready to go!", they chimed. They seemed altogether too happy. Warning bells were ringing in my brain as we sped off down the highway
    We were off on a "day-job". You never knew what someone would want you to do from one day to the next on these call-out jobs. Most of them were simple: recovery, inspection etc. etc., but every now & then the request was somewhat bizarre.
    "So, what job's so damn important as to delay my date with destiny", I asked morosely.
    "Something so complex, only a man of your caliber can handle it, Danny-boy" the tender said with a Cheshire Cat grin.
    This little game continued on until the truck wheeled off the highway & pulled into an imposing looking factory; the sign overhead read: "Acme Chicken Processors." A fowl breeze blew as we went through the gate & on into an area notable for the acres of aeration ponds. An official-looking chap in a white hardhat waved us over to where he stood beside one of the steaming, foamy ponds.
    "Glad ta see ya boys, got a little problem for ya!", he said.
    "(GAG!) Yea, great to (GAG!) be here...whats up?" I almost retched the words out.
    "One of the effluent aerators broke its' mounting & sank to the bottom of the pond" he stated.
    Apparently, the byproducts of chicken processing are pumped to a system of holding ponds, where a series of aerating machines mounted on platforms continuously churn the entrail-laden waters to promote the decomposition of the fowl stew.
    My job...find the sunken aerator & tie a line to it. Piece of cake.
    The lads were busily setting up the gear as I looked around for my drysuit.
    "Gee, all the drybags are booked out on jobs", the tender snickered. He pointed to an old, dusty sack off in the corner of the truck.
    "Nothin left but a couple of Yoke's, but don't worry, I grabbed you the best one!". Another snicker.
    "Yoke" is short for "Yokahama diving dress"; a precursor to the modern drysuit, they were originally designed for use with heavy gear ( breastplate/helmet ). We had retrofitted them with a conventional neck seal to allow for use with our lightweight helmet, the "Rat Hat". Rugged & durable, these suits were ideal for the abuses of construction diving, but over the years were put aside for the more modern dress. Regrettably, these suits no longer received regular maintenance...
    To my dismay, the moment I opened the patched & slightly moldy bag, several obese moths emerged from its' dark recesses & lumbered off into the sky. I yanked the tired old suit out & gave it the once over, all the while cursing my luck in a whispered stream of fowl obscenities. A short while later I was suited up & stood, with 1/2" poly line in hand, at the edge of the roiling, bubbly syrup of aerated chicken goo. No sweat, just a walk down a gentle slope to 30', keep going outward for about 40', a quick circle search, sling the load & I'm outta here, I thought to myself as I took those first tentative steps into the mire. I may as well have been walking on oiled ice! Down on me arse I went & slid like a greased pig till I piled up in a boil of slithering entrails.
    No problem. Back on my feet, get my bearings & head out. I had traveled maybe 10' when I first sensed the influx of warm, sludgy semi-fluids seeping into my antiquated diving dress. It was coming down my neck, my back, front, & both legs. I quickened my pace, queasy with the thought of what hideous mutant organisms might dwell in this retched avian scum pond! My mind conjured images of spiny, scaled critters with horny bird feet, patiently probing my orifices for access.
    And then....the aerator!! Tie the knot! Leaving bottom! I would have ran back had my suit not been flooded up to my ribs! Never had a diver so sodden with cluck muck returned to the land of disinfectant as fast as I did that day!
    One hour a 17 showers later, I was pronounced fit to join the human race once more. My last act before leaving that fowl place was to bottle some effluent, which, after brewing for several days in the sun, I poured gingerly into my tender's work boots.
    As I waited in the lobby for my lovely lady, I ruminated over my days work. What can you do but chuckle at life's little side trips? I was still chuckling as my maiden emerged from the elevator:
    "Hi baby! thank god you're hear...I'm near to starving!" she gushed.
    " What shall it be, my little wallflower...filet mignon'? lobster thermadore?...brisket du Daniel hhmmmmmm??" I murmured.
    "Sounds good but...
                                        ...HOW ABOUT CHICKEN!!”