It was the first week of December 1989, I was twenty one years old, and living In Vero Beach, Florida with my then soon to be first wife/ first ex wife Carol, and her two year old son Bradly. Driller Mike got out of prison, and married his girlfriend Karen, who was now pregnant with his third daughter. JR., Mike, and myself spent about a week behind Brother Dale’s shop, getting Mike's rig out of the tall grass and readying it to make a hole. We were going back to the groves! It felt really good to not be working in people’s back yards anymore, and to be spending time with JR., and Mike again. A can of starting fluid, and some new batteries was all it took to get the rig engines running again. Some grease, W.D. 40, air in all the tires, chased the mice out of the cab, and we were ready!

JR. had been working with his dad and little brother Jason drilling some small diameter flow wells that Mike’s rig couldn't drill because the kelly, and drill pipe were too big to fit in the casings. They were in the groves that were close to the coast. When we took JR. to work for us SR. got a friend of JR’s named Glenn to replace him. After JR finished working with us he went back to his dad’s rig, and Jason went off on his own to drill in the phosphate mines in Bartow Florida, and Glenn stayed on with SR., and JR. Jason bought a cable tool when he was only eighteen years old, got married, and started his own business. He’s forty seven now and has the same wife, an awesome daughter, three Versa-Drills, And a Gardner Denver 15W.

He found out that SR. wasn’t his dad, found out who was, and got to meet him, and spent some time getting to know him before he died. He must have been a good man because Jason legally changed his last name from SR’s last name to his real dad’s name. I worked for Jason for almost a year about six years ago, and the little turd fired me! I still don’t know why, but I’m glad he did because getting fired put me on a path that led to Larsen Farms in Dalhart Texas where I drilled no less than two hundred and fifty, twelve inch wells in a year, and met my fourth wife Angelica. I talked to Jason last year, he said he would hire me again. I didn’t go back to work for him or ask him why he fired me, but I’m glad that he did. One morning SR walked out of his hotel room that had a courtyard with a pool in the center of it, and found Glenn’s body floating dead in the pool. Glenn took the wrong combination of whisky, and pain pills the night before, and then apparently went for a swim. At that time Glenn left behind a son who was about five years old. That boy grew up and he was working for Jason as a driller six years ago when I was too. He was really good at putting in drill and drive wells, but unfortunately his life was heading in the same direction as his dad’s. The drilling industry is often generational, as is alcoholism, and addiction. I hope some day that the boy sobers up before someone finds his body the morning after.

Back to the story, we moved the rig, the rod truck, and everything else out to the grove, dug a mud pit, and had casing set a few days before Christmas. While we were setting casing I saw the welder hand Mike his nasal spray right after he used it himself. Mike took it from him, wiped the welder’s germs off the tip onto his shirt, stuck it in his nose,  gave it a squeeze, a snort and gave it back. After we set pipe, and cemented, we all went to the bar, and I noticed a couple of other guys with nasal spray sharing it with others too. I found out later that they were making the hole in the tip a little bigger, draining the decongestant from it, and then refilling using a syringe filled with a mixture of cocaine, and water. That night I heard Mike say to another guy “I got a rocket in my pocket.” I guess that rocket took him on a trip because he didn’t show up for work the next day, instead SR. came to the job to supervise the welding of the tee and flanges, while me and JR. helped the welders, backfilled the mud mit and set up for reverse air. After the welders were finished SR. helped us put the rig back on the hole. That was two days before Christmas Eve.

December 23rd, 1989

Mike showed up to work, and he didn’t look good, he was in a hurry about everything, and angry at the world. We tripped in and started drilling reverse air while flooding the hole by pumping water from the canal into the caseing. Me and JR. were angry too, we were both nearly broke, and it was the day before Christmas Eve. Mike called us both up to the rig floor, took a big toot from his nasal spray, and said “ there's a cold front coming , and this is a new grove if we don't get enough water to fill up the canal the trees will die. When ya’ll go down to the pump suction don't worry about the snakes God will keep you safe today.” took another sniff of afrin and started to drill like he was going to meet a Chinaman for dinner. Me and JR. were having a hard time keeping the pump suction clean. It was an important part of the job, because we needed as much water as we could get in the well to keep head pressure on it to support what Mike was sucking out through the bit. Not worrying about snakes was hard to do as well. We ended up working after dark that day, using job site lights that we plugged into the welder, and managed to make about four hundred feet of hole. That put us somewhere around nine hundred feet deep. Mike chained down the brake handle, and looked at me “ let her clean for about fifteen more minutes, pull high, and be here at seven tomorrow, if I'm not here start drilling.” "You don't want to pull up in the casing?” I asked.

He pulled the rocket out of his pocket, took a sniff, and said “ No God’ll keep er open.” And since neither JR. or myself saw a snake one all day, I believed him.

Christmas Eve 1989

I got to the rig at seven on Christmas Eve, and it was pretty chilly, probably about forty degrees, but I could see the line of clouds that was the cold front coming at me from the north west, and I knew it was going to be a miserable, cold and wet day. I fired everything up using the last of the either we had, and jumper cables to get the compressor going. I made a one man connection, thanked God for keeping the hole open, turned on the fresh water, the air, and started to make slow hole, because I was alone, and didn’t want to get myself into a bind. JR. showed up around nine, with the rain, and a wooden pipe that I made for us about three years earlier out of a  grapefruit tree branch. It was filled with crushed seeds, stems and some resin that he scraped out of that same pipe. We smoked, and talked in the truck about the bullshitery of having to work on Christmas Eve, and  about how it sucked to be broke, cold, and wet all at the same time. JR. was never much of a talker, but that morning he told me that he wanted to be morning D.J. on a rock and roll station someday. The last time I saw him he was driving pipe with an air hammer, and still not talking much. We put our rain slickers on, got back to drilling, and Mike showed up at lunch time not wearing work clothes,with a bag full of cold egg mc muffins, and a tall red Budweiser that he was drinking. He gave us each two hundred and fifty dollars, and the Mc Donalds bag. He said “ya’ll work until dark, make sure the holes clean and pull high don't be smoking any pot, or drinking beer.” As he pulled away, it started to snow in Vero Beach Florida! It didn't last long, maybe an hour, but the damp cold sure did. Me and JR. made a connection, and a fire on the ground. I gave him the brake, told him to make slow hole, and drove away to buy a bag of proper weed, and a twelve pack of Coors Light.

At about four o clock the air pressure gauge stopped working, and we couldn't see the discharge hose, it was on the off driller’s side of the rig about midway from the front. But we kept drilling with a lot of faith in God because we didn’t get snake bitten the day before, or stuck in the hole overnight. We were probably about eleven hundred feet deep, and were able to stop using the fresh water pump before I left for the beer, and whatnot run. The well was flowing about a half pipe, Not much more than that was going to come until we drilled into some dolastone, maybe two hundred or so more feet. I noticed that the kelly hose wasn’t shaking and dancing like it should be with good circulation, and went to check the reverse air discharge hose, that was a six inch hose connected to the bottom of a stand pipe that was welded to the derick on one end, and the other end chained to the backhoe bucket at the canal. Coming out of the hose was nothing but air. I ran to the air compressor to check the gauge on it but changed my mind. I already knew we were plugged off, and ran to the floor, the rotary was still spinning, that was a good sign. I kicked it out, pulled on the drawworks clutch, and the rig grunted and died. That was not a good sign! I yelled at JR., to start the rig. That had to be done with a screw driver, or channel locks, by jumping the starter solenoid, and he was taking a pee off the edge of the floor like everything was right. I started  it myself, engaged the rotary, and pressed my foot on the throttle a little, it took a full turn, back spun, and killed the motor again. Then I started Mike’s rig again. It was the last time I would ever start it. I put the transmission in low gear, went back to the brake, pulled down on the drawworks clutch, and stepped hard on the throttle pedal. The pipe stretched a little, then shrank back as the engine gave out a loud grunt, and then screamed wide open at full throttle. The big number one eighty roller chain that drove the drawworks broke and chattered as it spun off the sprockets! We were stuck in the hole real good now. We disconnected the airline from the air compressor, and used it to fill the drill string with water, reconnected it, and tried to blow it off to regain circulation several times to no avail. Me and JR. were both wet, cold, hungry, and tired. So we turned off the lights and went home. I didn’t call Mike, and he didn’t call me either. I drank a lot of rum with Carol, and her family that night, effectively erasing the whole day from my thoughts, and had a great time telling crazy stories to my soon to be nieces, nephews, and step son.

Christmas Day 1989 

I called Mike at home, we didn't have cell phones, they were too expensive back then. He did have a truck phone but you could only use it if it was very important, because it cost something like seventy cents per minute, which was a lot back then. He wasn’t going to be in his truck on Christmas morning anyway. His wife answered, and when I asked for him, she said “Jimmy I don’t know where he is, he went out drinking last night and never came home.” “Did you try his truck phone?” I asked. “Ill tell him you called. Merry Christmas.” was all she said and then hung up. I was feeling a lot sick, and took six sudafed pills, because more is better, right? Wrong, I was so wigged out from the pseudoephedrine that I ineffectively spent the whole day drinking and smoking weed trying to stop thinking about the job, and come back down. Mike never called, and I didn’t call him either.

December 26th, 1989

It was still cold the day after Christmas, I called Mike at home, and his wife said that he went to work. I called his truck phone, he answered and I explained what happened on Christmas Eve. He told me that I was fired, and to find another job because he was done drilling forever. I went out to the rig anyway. “Just leave Jimmy, I can’t pay you to help me fix this.” I didn't leave that day until we put the drawworks roller chain back together, tried to free up the pipe, and clean up. It wasn’t the last day that me and Mike worked together but it was the last day that we worked together on that rig. It was also the day that Mike stopped drinking, and snorting the nasal spray. He hired a blasting company from somewhere in Georgia to blow the pipe apart, and sold the rig to SR. who never used it. 

Present Day

I called Mike today, he is retired and living in Mexico. I asked him what the name of the blasting company was, and he said “Jimmy I can’t remember?” we got to talking about the job and what happened, and he said “When we cemented the casing I should have sent the cement back, it was water with a hardly enough portland to turn it gray, It wasn’t your fault the pipe got stuck, it would have gotten stuck if it was me, you, or anyone else on the brake that day.” I spent my whole adult life thinking that it was my fault, and he let me. This was not the first, second, or even fifth time we've talked about that day. So I asked “Why did you let me think that it was my fault for so long?” His answer was “Did it make you a better driller?” I guess it did, it made me very careful, I always replace gauges when they fail, I pay a lot of attention to my discharge hose, and install my air hose from the compressor with a manifold in it, so I can fill the drill pipe with water quickly if it plugs off.

The Year 1990

Mike got sober, bought a commercial king fishing boat, and got a divorce. He lived on that boat, and became Known at the marina as Preacher Mike, because he would hold church services in the bait house every Sunday morning. Thanks for taking the time to read this story, I hope you liked it. Until next time, remember to never take too many sudafeds, or tamper with nasal spray bottles.