Wayne Nash recounts some of his spring exploits.

Looks like spring has finally sprung in south Georgia. It started out by raining so much, I could have raised rice and crawfish on most of my locations. So much for the drought. Good thing my rig has four-wheel drive; I know some of the other local drillers had some tow bills. Work has picked up, and I’ve got enough to last ’til the peak season, which looks like it has already started. The winter projects went pretty well and are mostly complete, so we’re ready for another year.

Over the last couple months, I attended a few state trade shows and had a great time. A notable one was the Kentucky show in Lousisville. I did a seminar on borehole fishing, and the folks that ran the show treated me like a king. Met a bunch of old friends and made some new ones.

A couple weeks later I took my bride, Lottie (also known as bin-Lottie, my personal terrorist), to Gatlinburg, Tenn., for the Tennessee show. Gatlinburg in the spring is a beautiful place; the show was good, the folks were good and we had a great time – except for a couple of minor things that can happen to any well driller!

We could only get one night at the convention center hotel, so the second night, we had to find another place to stay. Gatlinburg has a zillion hotels, motels, cabins and chalets – with anything a person might want in the way of conveniences, so I knew it wouldn’t be a problem. After the fun I – oops, I mean “we” – had one time in Biloxi, Miss., with a hot tub, I figured to get a room with one and see what happened.

Sure enough, I found a hotel close to the convention center that had a two-story chalet with a spiral staircase, two televisions and all kinds of stuff – including the hot tub. It was so private, I had to have a seperate key to work the elevator.

We moved in and went to a fine supper. When we got back, Lottie wanted to try the hot tub. Great. She got in and started the water running. She asked me how to turn on the jets so I looked at the controls. No problem. Being in the drilling business and knowing all sorts of stuff about pumps, I knew better than to start the pump until the suction was covered, so as not to tear up the seal. The water rose enough to cover the suction, and I figured that it was OK. Lottie was kicked back, relaxin’ without a care in the world when I hit the high button, to create maximum enjoyment.

What I neglected to calculate was, 1) the angle of the jets, and 2) the water level. The water was about 2 inches below the jets, and the previous tenants had aimed them all at the ceiling. Whatever kind of pump, it was a fine one; it pumped about 90 gallons a minute all over everywhere – the walls, the ceiling, the floor. Fortunately, the pump ran dry before it got up to the ice chest. Lottie came out of that tub like a baptized cat. “Ya big dummy,” she hollered. “Don’t you know how to work this thing? What’s the matter with you?” She proceeded to mop up the floor and wring out her unmentionables, clucking like a hen the whole time. “It’s hot in here. Go turn on the air conditioner.”

After that minor faux pas, I was eager to please, so I headed for the thermostat. I flipped the switch, and nothing happened instantly, like “she-who-must-not-be-disobeyed” demanded, so I flipped about 10 more times in rapid succession, just to make sure, and I’ll be dog-gone if the cheap sucker didn’t trip a breaker somewhere – the same breaker that worked the hot tub. Oops.

I was headed for the car to get some tools when Lottie said, “Open the windows and go to bed, ya big dummy, before you tear up anything else.” Yes, ma’am.

A week or so later, when she started speaking to me again, she agreed she had about as good a time as she coulda – with a well driller. Heck, I probably could have fixed it. Anyway, they’ve got insurance, right?