Drilling advances

	Vol. 229 No. 3
LES SKINNER, PE, CONTRIBUTING EDITOR, LSKINNER@SBCGLOBAL.NET

Things I wish I had said

Earlier in my career, I was in a large conference room ready to make a presentation to obtain approval to drill a well somewhere. The Division Manager was seated at the head of the table surrounded by a whole team of highly-paid professionals from all disciplines. Under review just then was a gas-gathering system for a number of leases with newly-drilled wells in South Texas. The gas wells had excellent initial flowrates, but there was no gas pipeline nearby. So, the company decided to build its own gathering system and ship the gas to the nearest pipeline. Seemed like a simple enough idea at the time.

The review had gone on for some time. The pipeline guys presented their well thought out plans, including costs and timing for completing the job. After their presentation, the questions started. At first, the questions were benign: “What pipe sizes would be used?” “How would the lines be installed, knowing that there was a lot of rock on the surface?” “What about compression?”-the common stuff.

Then, the arguments began: “Well, I think the main line should go south here and then turn back to the east!” “I think we should use larger pipe to provide high throughputs when the pressure goes down in the future!” “I think smaller pipe should be used to reduce material and installation costs!” You get the idea.

The Division Manager sat quietly through the verbal war that rapidly escalated into accusations and threats. It seems there were some old wounds from a previous project review that had not healed completely. Many of those present knew less about pipelines than they did about decorum in a meeting. That sure didn’t stop the sarcasm about this gathering system. Perhaps, they thought the pipeline guys had not adequately considered these issues during selection and design.

Finally, the Division Manager in a moment of exasperation asked a single question that brought everyone back to earth: “Is there anyone in this room who does not want to sell the gas from these wells?”

I wish I had said that.

In fact, I wish I had said a lot of things in the past that would have reduced confusion, built up other folks, set them at ease and lowered the collective blood pressure in the room. Instead, I have made some of the dumbest, most inflammatory and least prudent remarks known to man in the heat of battle. In fact, I’m still trying to live down some of the stupid things I said in high school.

The effect is that I have been justifiably labeled by many as being dumber than a sack of manure on a hot day. It’s not really that I lack the cerebral wherewithal to understand the situation, but somewhere between the brain and the tongue the message just gets garbled somehow. Others apparently suffer from this malady, but fortunately some do not.

In my last summer before graduation, I worked as an intern for a major oil company in their gasoline plant division. I thought that might be a good career fit at the time, since I was studying chemical engineering. Like all bright, young, idealistic engineers, I thought pretty highly of my technical abilities and skills.

There was a senior level man in the office, who was legendary among processing people in the city. He probably forgot more about gasoline plants every day than most of us would know in an entire career. As my tenure neared an end, he sought me out to find out what was being studied in the university I attended. Dee didn’t have a degree, but he certainly was interested in academia.

Dee sat quietly while I talked about new design procedures and software (the newest thing in 1971). When I finished rambling on for a good hour, he told me, “Les, this has been very interesting. I like to keep up on the newest technology, so I appreciate your help.”

At first, I thought he was being sarcastic-poking fun at the kid. Then he said, in all seriousness, “You know, I’ve never met a person I couldn’t learn something from.”

I wish I had said that.

It was cold and the wind was blowing. Neither of these is unusual for West Texas. The wind always blows out there. In the winter it is said that there is nothing between you and the North Pole but a three-strand barbed wire fence and one old mesquite bush that blew over last year. That was just the way it felt that evening.

We were making yet another trip to change the bottomhole assembly. This was the third one in as many days. We were trying to keep the hole straight and vertical, but the bit insisted on drifting to the west despite our every effort.

Max (wellsite supervisor), Bill (toolpusher) and I (drilling engineer) were standing behind the driller’s station, so we could watch the tripping operation. A weighted slug had been pumped down the drill pipe before the trip, and the driller was moving as fast as he could getting out of the hole. He knew we were an unhappy lot, and he was doing his best to avoid adding to our frustration. Still, the mood was as gloomy as the day itself.

A stand was pulled and apparently the diesel-based OBM didn’t fall as fast as it should. The crew broke the connection and spun the string using the rotary table to back it out. With no warning, the mud inside the stand suddenly sprayed all over the rig floor soaking everyone. The wind caused the plume to fall directly on top of Max, Bill and me. Sticky, smelly brown mud went everywhere.

I wiped my safety glasses on the back of one arm, which mostly smeared it. I looked up and noticed that everyone else was doing the same thing. The poor floorhands were squeezing the OBM out of their sleeves and emptying it out of pockets. The driller was wiping his face and neck with a red rag. We all looked like a group of chocolate-covered gingerbread men, but we sure didn’t smell like it.

Nobody said a word. There was no reason to chew out the driller or the hands. Nobody swore or uttered harsh words about our sudden misfortune. We all just stood there, cold, nasty, soaked, dirty, tired and miserable.

Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, I looked over at Max. With mud dripping from the brim of his hardhat, he gave me a quirky little grin and said, “God, I love the oilpatch.”

I wish I had said that.