Drilling Rig Hazing 101. Sledge Hammer Olympics and God Bless Texas-!

Indril Rig 14 on a deep test in Oil City Michigan circa 1989

This story didn’t make it into my book, "Oil Field Trash-Roughneck Tales From The Rig Floor." But with the tragedies unfolding in Texas, Louisiana, Florida, and the tropics, I figured I would post a lighthearted story from the eighties oil boom here in Michigan. Even the birthplace of “gushers," yes "Spindletop” in Beaumont was under siege. God bless all of you and I sincerely hope and pray you’ll get through this. In the words of Bob Dylan: "You don't know what you've got, until it's gone."

Sincerely, Greig Grey

 Sledge Hammer Olympics

Roughnecks all start at the bottom: worms to be specific, and it’s a common bond we share. We were all worms once, and pranks are part of becoming a hand. One of my favorites as I look back is “Sledge Hammer Olympics.” Here’s how it went down.

We had thrown the book at our new worm RJ. Hell, we threw the whole knowledge box at him, and he kept coming back. Our chain-hand, Kenny had given him the grand tour, pointing out every grease fitting, gear boxes, temperature gauges, and oil pressure gauges. How to change the dies in the tongs and make sure the keepers were secure. There are no gold stars by your name if one of your dies ends up down hole—bottom hole material—resulting in a fishing expedition. 

We were quite sure we were stuck with RJ when he shucked out $22 for a new white hardhat after his third paycheck. It was his prized possession. He might be doped from head to toe, wearing rags like Aqua Lung, but he kept his new hardhat spotless.

We were gathered in the dog house, having a ten minute safety meeting. Spider chanted an old timer adage: “Stay off the merry-go-round (rotary table). Keep your feet out of the stirrups (slip handles) or you’ll end up in the hog waller (reserve pit).

 “Go catch your sample son,” I instructed as the Geolograph clicked off another foot. He headed down the steps and I tossed the drilling manual under the bench. “It’s time for some advanced training,” I said. “Let’s test his aim.”

My driller, Spider and Kenny smiled and I went down to the bottom doghouse to get a red bandana out of my locker.

When I got back, Spider had started a 16 penny spike into one of the oak timbers on the rig floor with the 12 pound sledge hammer. I walked to the shaker side of the floor to see how our new hand was doing. He was just tying up his sample bag and making his way to the mud logger’s trailer to deliver it.

Kenny was blindfolding me with the bandana as RJ climbed up the steps.

“What are you guys doing?” he asked.

I lifted the blindfold from my left eye and peered out at him. “Sledge Hammer Olympics” I said. “I doubt that you’re ready for this.”

I knelt down on the floor and extended the sledge next to the spike, moving slightly back to get the right distance from it with my left eye still uncovered. I pulled the blindfold down again, gripped the wood handle tightly and slowly raised the hammer.

“Hold on,” Kenny shouted. “Are you sure you can’t see?” He waved his hand in front of my face.

“I wouldn’t cheat.” I snapped back. “You know me better than that. I’m Oil Field Trash for crying out loud.”

The worm looked on intently as I carefully adjusted my grip, the head of the hammer back resting on the timber next to the spike. Just then Spider rushed over from the dog house. “Wait! Wait a minute! Hold on here,” he shouted.

“What the hell is it now?”

“Let me hold onto your hardhat. Don’t want it going down the v-door.”

“Thanks. I almost forgot it.”

I raised the hammer again, slightly past horizontal and brought it down hard where I figured the spike was at.

Kenny laughed, “You barely nicked it.”

I lifted the blindfold and witnessed the spike, bent over sideways in the oak plank. I shook my head in disgust. “Out of practice I guess.”

RJ looked on eagerly.

“Want to try and show up my derrick-man?” Spider asked.

Kenny shook his head. “He’s not ready for this.” 

“Oh yeah,“ spoke the worm. “I’m ready.“

I tapped one of the spikes lightly into the timber as Kenny blindfolded RJ, now knelt down, adjusting his grip the hammer.

“Take one more peek,” I said. “But that’s it.”

The worm lifted the blindfold and moved the hammer next to the spike. Spider pulled the bandana back down over his eye and I waved my hand in front of his face.

“Can you see worm? We don’t take cheaters lightly.”

“I can’t see a thing,” he wailed. “Honest.”

“Let me hold your hardhat RJ,” Spider said. “It’d be a shame to get this dirty.”

Spider tossed the bright white hat to me.

The worm had the hammer in a death grip now.

“You think he can see Kenny?” I asked.

“No, I think he’s honest.”

“Alright then,” Spider said. “Hit her like you live boy. Hard and fast.”

Then just as he raised the sledge up over his head, I placed his beautiful new hardhat directly over the spike and stood back. The worm, intent on showing me up, brought the hammer down hard—a direct hit, dead center on top of his $22 hardhat—crushing it flat. I’d never seen the prank work this good; it resembled a Frisbee more than a hardhat.

We all burst into laughter. Spider fell down and Kenny was hanging onto a handrail, short of breath. I was doubled over, waiting to see the worm’s face as he took off the blindfold. His face turned purple as he realized what we’d pulled on him. RJ looked ready to fight—hate in his eyes as he picked up the bright white disc. “You bastards,” he fumed and stormed off to the bottom doghouse.

 I caught my breath and stood upright. “I think he’s gonna make a hand.”