138 Degrees in the Shade

138 Degrees in the Shade

August 1965, Libya

I’m near the end of my Benghazi, Libya assignment, and since I’m the senior geologist in the office, my job is to evaluate important wildcats being drilled by Esso Libya. It’s nine in the morning, and I’m waiting for an Alitalia a flight to Tripoli, where I can fly in an old DC-3 400 miles south to a remote site near the Algerian border. I’ll be on the rig in for at least two weeks, maybe longer if I’m held over.       

            Alitalia is right on time. My God, what a surprise.

            We’re whizzing down the runway, and as the pilot takes off, I’m pulled back in my seat. Actually, I like the way Alitalia flies. It’s never just a slow roll down the taxiway, it’s a roaring almost a wheelie onto the runway, and it certainly isn’t dull.

            It’s an hour later, and the pilot’s voice comes over the speaker.

            “Please, be sure your seat belts are fasten; air brakes will be engaged shortly.”

            Only seconds later, the plane shudders and pitches forward. This plane is going to come unglued one of these times—But not this time, I think, as we dip almost straight down with the flaps up to slow the plane’s descent.

            There he is. A western-looking man is slouching against the wall with a cigarette hanging from his mouth, holding a scrawled sign on toilet paper that says, “Esso.” Another Aussie carrier pilot, I think.

“I’m the Esso guy,” I say.

“Oh, hello; I’m Reg. I’ll be flying you down.”

“I’m Richard.”

            “Okay, Mate. Just follow me to the hanger, and we’ll be off. It’s about a two hour flight down there.”

            We’ve been in the air for about an hour, and Be there in another 30 minutes, crosses my mind, and I have just finished reading the International Herald Tribune, when Reg opens the door to the cockpit and yells, “There’s a giblie going on down there, and I’m going to have to dip into it to see the rig!”

             I look out the window, and I can see it’s a major sandstorm the Libyans call a giblie.

            “I’m going to drop in real low,” he yells.

            The plane bounces up about 15 feet, and a second later heads back down. My stomach is on the ceiling, and it’s not coming down. I’m wondering if the wings might come off.

            For God’s sake, land!

            “Can’t find the rig! Reg yells. “If I don’t see it in 15 minutes, I’ve got to head back to Tripoli—getting low on fuel!”

            The plane drops lower until we are within a hundred feet of the ground, when Reg yells, “Oh, my god!” I look out to see us barely whizz over a 100-foot sand dune.

            I’m passed being airsick, and now I’ll settle for a crash landing—anything to get off this plane. Reg is yelling, “I’m heading to Tripoli. We’re low on gas—but we should be able to make it.”

            Should be? But as we pull up into smoother air I get some relief, but that doesn’t last very long.

            “Oh, no! The giblie has moved north and the Tripoli airport has visibility of 100 meters,” yells Reg.

“What are you going to do?”

“We have to land—we’re out of fuel!”

            Out of gas in the middle of a sandstorm with almost no visibility. Yeah, I’m praying, and my nose is stuck on the window looking for the ground.

            “Hang on!—I see the runway—Damn!—there’s a bad crosswind! Ohooooo!”

            A thought flashes: Well, we shouldn’t burn when we crash—we’re out of gas. I glance out and I see the runway. Yes! Yes! I’m elated, but the plane tilting, and I can hear Reg cursing as he tries to level it before our right wing hits the runway. Finally, I feel a wheel hit the runway—but it is only the right wheel of the landing gear.

            Oh, God! Oh, God! We’re going to crash! We’re doing a wheelie down the runway with our right wing inches from hitting the asphalt. Finally, Yes! We bounce over and the left wheel hits so the plane goes into another wheelie. It is another 100 yards before the plane settles down and Reg guides it up to the hanger, as the engine coughs—out of gas.

            I’m off the plane, and I want to kiss the ground. But Reg calmly lights a cigarette, and walks up. “Be back in the morning at nine, Mate, and we’ll give it another go.”

            Hell, getting back on that plane is the last thing on my mind, but I want to keep my job, I’ll fly.

                                          &

            It is 9 o’clock the next morning, I’m back in that old DC-3, and minutes later Reg is flying me south. It’s a smooth flight, and we land about 100 yards from the location. The rig is a French rig they hauled in from Algeria, with a French and Libyan crew.       

            I’m off the plane—My God, it’s hot! I have never felt heat like what hit me when I got off the plane. A couple of guys walk out to meet the plane, and I know one of them is an American. He is the other American on the rig. I’m the geologist in charge of evaluating what we are drilling, and he is the Esso Engineer in charge of the actual drilling.

            The American engineer walks up to meet me, wearing only khaki shorts, sandals, and a hard hat. We walk toward the camp and as we get to the communication trailer, I notice an old RC Cola temperature sign nailed to a post beside the door. The thermometer is at the maximum that could be recorded—120 degrees.

            Before I left Benghazi, the district geologist told me this part of the Libyan Sahara Desert is an area of 100-foot high sand dunes that are a soft, sometimes middle shade of red from the iron oxide that is present in the sand, and the red color doesn’t reflect the heat, it absorbs it. That accounts for the record temperature of 138 degrees recorded near where we are drilling—a world record, and I’m thinking we might break the record as sweat runs down my cheeks

            We walk to an air-cooled trailer that serves as our office, and strike up a conversation, “Hi, I’m Bill Sandifer. Where’s home?”

            “Richard Mason—Arkansas.”

“Really, what part?” Bill gives me a funny look and a shake of the head.

“South Arkansas, little town near El Dorado; you’ve probably never heard of it.”

“Huh?—near El Dorado?—I’ll bet I have. What its name?”

“Norphlet.” There’s a few seconds of stunned silence as Bill finally says, “You’re kidding!

I graduated from Norphlet High School in 1950!”

            Bill is five years older than I am, so I didn’t know him in school.

            We are on French drilling rig 800 miles southwest of Benghazi, Libya, in the most remote place I have ever been, and we are the only two Americans within hundreds of miles and of both graduated from Norphlet High School. Yes, those are lottery odds.