Sweet Summer Rain

thenorphletpaperboy: 138 Degrees in the Shade

thenorphletpaperboy: 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 ...

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.

thenorphletpaperboy: Breaking the Rules

thenorphletpaperboy: Breaking the Rules: Breaking the Rules Benghazi, Libya, May 1964             The Beaver has just dropped me off at Santa Fe Rig 2. It’s a new location...

Breaking the Rules

Breaking the Rules

Benghazi, Libya, May 1964

            The Beaver has just dropped me off at Santa Fe Rig 2. It’s a new location only 10-miles from the new Esso port of Marsa Brega, and I’m not wasting any time hanging around the rig today. They won’t even start drilling for another 24 hours, so I’m heading down to the coast to see some of the German fortifications left over from World War II.

            I just passed a little ridge overlooking the main coast road, and there are at least three fortified, sandbagged areas where German machinegun placement have been, and there are stacks of land-mines and jerry cans everywhere. 

            It is about 3 o’clock and I am about to turn around and head back to the rig when I see something strange on the side of a low cliff. As I get closer, I realize it is the remains of a biplane. It had crashed and burned, and as I look at the wreck of the old World War I Biplane, I’m guessing it’s Italian, and then not twenty yards away I see a German Jerry can. The history of the country sometimes overwhelms me.

            It’s late in the afternoon, and I decide to stop by the Esso camp at Marsa Brega for dinner.  Yeah, there’s the dining hall.  I walk up to what looks like a dining hall, and poke my head in. Hey, there’s Sidney Sorenson one of the Aussie Pilots. I’ll join him.

            “Hi Sid. Mind if I join you?”

“Have a seat, Mate. What are you doing here in Brega?”

            “Oh, I’m on a rig about ten-miles up the road, and I thought I’d get some decent grub before I drive back. You’re usually not in Brega, either. What are you flying?”

            “They switched me off Beavers to that DC-3 out on the runway. I’ll be in and out of here nearly every day for a while.”

            The waiter has just placed a nice steak in front of me. I’m thinking how good it is, and about to leave, but something just crosses my mind. I turn back and sit down beside Sid.

“Sid, do you ever have any extra room on the plane?”

            “Yeah, every day, mate. We never have more than a couple of guys. The plane is mostly for cargo.”

            “What if a young lady just happened to be at the airport a few days from now? Do you think you might give her a lift?”

            Sid is smiling, and I know those risk-taking Aussies won’t turn down something like that.

            “Well, sure, but how are you going to get the word to your wife?”

            “If you have a few minutes, I’ll write her a note, and tell her to meet you at the dispatcher’s office next Monday. What time do you leave Benghazi?”

            “Just a little later than the Beavers  you guys fly in and out of the desert— around eight-thirty.”

            “Great; I’ll tell her just to get on the DC-3, with you, and no one will ever know—or care.”

“You got it, Richard. Write the letter.”

A few minutes later, and Sid has an invitation to Vertis.

            “Here Sid; the dispatcher will get it to her.”

            “Okay, will do, and when we’re in the air, I’ll radio you an ETA. Pick her up out on the runway. No sense in having the folks in this office wondering what a woman is doing here.”

“Gotcha. I’ll be by the radio Monday morning waiting for your call.”

                                         &

            The first week of this assignment is dragging because I have Vertis’s visit on my mind, but it’s Monday, and now she should be on her way. I have just left the communication’s trailer, heading for Marsa Brega, after Sid gave me an ETA of 9:32. I’m dropping down toward the coast now, and I can see the two dozen scattered houses.  I guess about 50 people live here year-round, loading the tankers and serving as a supply point for rigs in the desert.

            I stop at the edge of the runway waiting on the plane, and start looking for the DC-3. There it comes, crosses my mind, as see a DC-3 dropping like a rock for an approach. Yeah, it’s Sid all right. I start my Land Rover and get ready to drive out on the runway. Is she going to be on the plane? Of course, Vertis knows it’s against company policy for her to even fly on the cargo plane, and it sure is against the rules for her to accompany me to a remote camp in the desert and spend the night at one of the drill-sites.

            I’m waiting on the edge of the airstrip in my Land Rover with the motor running, and I watch as Sid pulls up short of the hanger, and the side cargo door opens. Yes, she’s on the plane! I roar out to the runway, and Vertis hops out of the DC-3, just as I pull up.

            “Hey, need a ride?” I yell. Vertis jumps into my Land Rover, and we head for the desert. I’m sure the folks waiting for the plane to pull up to the unloading dock wonder what’s happening.

“Richard, I can’t believe you pulled this off,” Vertis says as we drive along. “Aren’t you

afraid you’ll get in trouble?”

            “Naaaa, they need geologists in the worst way, and true love sometimes does some unusual things,” I say back.

“You mean true lust.”

            We both laugh, and since we are almost newlyweds, we don’t even think about the consequences of violating company rules. Heck, I’m thinking, they won’t fire me. They need wellsite geologists—but it will be a written reprimand—won’t look to good on my record—ah, forget it.

“How was the flight down?” I ask.

            “Not bad; a little bumpy, and Sid made me nervous when he dipped in and dropped like a rock to the runway.”

            “Yeah, that’s the way Sid always comes in. He was an Aussie carrier pilot before he started flying for Esso Libya.”

            “One other little thing; I fastened my seat belt when we took off, and after we landed I stood up and the belt came with me. It wasn’t attached to the plane.”

            We pull up to the rig, and Vertis, with her long, blonde hair, causes quite a stir among the crew, but the tool-pusher and other Americans on the rig are my friends, and everyone thinks it’s a fun thing to do. I even take Vertis to the dining hall that night for dinner, and she is literally the belle of the ball. It is after dinner now, and we’re going to have a romantic reunion in my trailer.

                                         &

            It’s the next morning, and we’re heading back to Marsa Brega where Vertis can catch the DC-3 back to Benghazi. Sid taxies out to the end of the runway and kills the engine on the side of the plane where the cargo door is located. That’s my signal to drive out to the plane and deliver Vertis. A quick kiss, Vertis hops on the plane, and I’m smiling as I stand there beside the Land Rover.

thenorphletpaperboy: A Healthy Ecosystem

thenorphletpaperboy: A Healthy Ecosystem:                   A Healthy Ecosystem In past columns I’ve mentioned the more exciting wildlife in our state such as cougars and bear...

A Healthy Ecosystem

                  A Healthy Ecosystem

In past columns I’ve mentioned the more exciting wildlife in our state such as cougars and bears, but what about ordinary group of animals and birds we see almost daily, or did see almost daily? Without a doubt, we are the ones who decide what animals, birds or reptiles live in our state, and which ones to eliminate because we think they are a nuisance or dangerous. I guess our grandfathers, who exterminated all the wolves, cougars, and almost all the bears would say good riddance. But is it really a good thing to kill off a species? We have caused huge numbers of animals, birds, etc. to become extinct, and we took the millions of buffalo down to 26 before we stopped the slaughter. Can you imagine, when the transcontinental railroad was completed, passengers could ride along and shoot buffalo from the train? Just for the sport of killing some large animal. Well, the passenger pigeon wasn’t as lucky, and the estimated billion birds were killed down to the last bird, which died in a zoo.

We have matured in our management of wildlife, but we’re not there yet. I had a man working for me doing yard work and other odd jobs, and I had noticed a number of black snakes and king snakes on our property. I said, “C. D. let’s don’t just kill every snake you see. A lot of those snakes are eating mice and other pests.” Well, C. D. just shook his head and said, “Mr. Mason, I don’t trust none of ‘em.” C. D. has retired now, and I have adopted a “Don’t kill anything you’re not going to eat” on my property, and that includes copperheads. I know a copperhead can kill you, but I don’t remember anyone dying, and during that time a lot of folks were killed by lightering strikes. I guess I’m saying, “I’ll take the slight risk in order to keep the ecosystem intact around my house. I live on 37 acres with two small ponds and only my house on the front of the property. I think animals have developed a sense of safety on this land. A doe had twins in our courtyard not ten yards from my front door, and last night, just at dusk, I drove down my driveway and spooked a herd of deer. Seven to ten---maybe more.  When the raccoons and possums hear my sliding glass door open from the kitchen after dinner, they are almost standing in line to nibble the scraps.  We’ve picked up a family of red-tail hawks over the past couple of years, which I’m sure the squirrels don’t like, but they are holding down the squirrel and rat population really well. Maybe I’m getting the reputation of being to animal friendly because Canadian geese are starting to show up in my backyard around my small pond, and a tree on a small island in my lower pond has become an egret roost.  

But some parts of my Arkansas ecosystem are missing. Up until about 10 years ago I had a nice covey of quail, but slowly, without a quail being shot, they have disappeared. The two small ponds, open areas around the tree line, and the abundance of grasses with seed are excellent quail habitat. Yes, and I know from talking to hunters and others who regularly spend time in the field and woods of our state, that the sighting a cougar happens about as frequently as kicking up a covey of quail.

I’ve quoted the legendary Chief of the Seattle Indians several times before in my columns, but I’ll do it one more time because this one really needs his wisdom. “Man is merely part of the web of life,…” uh, huh you know the rest.  Yes, you might shake your head when you look at my backyard where the armadillos have rooted up the grass, but they have also cleaned out the fire ants, so I’ll take the bad with the good.

Of course, every time I mention Arkansas needs to have a complete, viable ecosystem, someone will always say we need to shoot every coyote we see. “They get the young deer.” Now really folks, anyone who think the zillions of deer we have in this state are in any danger of being reduced by coyotes should just take a look at my back yard around dusk. Studies have shown coyotes basically have a diet of small animals. When the numbers of deer in the state are considered, coyotes are an insignificant factor. However, if coyotes were allowed to multiply, they would help control the out-of-control spread of possums, raccoon, and other small animals.

Then maybe we could see our quail make a comeback. Yes, I know the old “loss of habitat’ story and it sound good, but it doesn’t hold water. What happened to my covey of quail? And what happened to the thousands of other coveys that have disappeared? Of course, we have lost habitat, but we still have millions of acres of prime habitat without one quail. Why? It’s sure not from overhunting, so what is the cause? I think we should look at the ecosystem and see what is different when compared to the quail we had in the 1950s and 60s. First, the net additions to our ecosystem: Feral hogs, armadillos, raccoons, possums, fire ants, and skunks. What do these animal have in common, and why did they multiply in our ecosystem to become such large numbers?  The answer is very simple: Nature abhors a vacuum, and over the past 75 years, we have created a vacuum in our ecosystem and today it has been filled by those additions I just mentioned. Of course, it’s easy to see how the vacuum was created. We killed off all the predators that kept the ecosystem in balance and the vacuum was filled with the animals listed above. Those animals have several things in common, and the most obvious is they are ground-feeding scavengers that will eat just about anything. Which brings us full circle to look at the most obvious missing parts of our ecosystem. Yes, of course, it’s the quail and this is the easy part of the eco-equation. Why? Well, “ground-feeding scavengers” feed on almost anything edible and small quail chicks and eggs are gobbled up eliminating our quail. The answer is as Chief Seattle would counsel is to repair the web, and then the quail will return. Look, I know I have said this several times, but unless we add predators of ground feeding scavengers to our wildlife mix, we will have less of an ecosystem here in Arkansas, and why we’re adding stop eliminating any animal that feeds on these scavenges, and that means stop shooting the coyotes, bobcats, hawks, and owls. Do away with the ill throughout bear season, set a moratorium on cougars and wolves, then maybe we will see the web of nature repaired and our quail will return.

I’ll leave you with another environmental quote from Chief Seattle, “To harm the earth is to heap contempt on its creator.”