I sluggishly awoke to the sound of the hotel phone; it was the morning wake-up call I arranged when I checked in. My senses were dull from a long night of drinking and little sleep, but I managed to find the light and dress myself. Luckily, my work uniform was a one piece fire-retardant jumpsuit with a zipper from the knees to neck. I could see my boots against the wall but the boots seemed to be moving back and forth; I finally found my balance with the nearby dresser. As I leaned in strain, with what seemed like all the energy I could muster, to lace up and tie my boots, my mind drifted through different reactions my boss would have if I didn’t show up to the oil refinery for work. I envisioned every scenario ending with him allowing me to sleep in. But by the time I quit daydreaming of skipping work, I was in the middle of our daily safety meeting. “DAMN,” I mumbled to this harsh realization.
I look back on this day many times in my life, and I wish I wouldn’t have drunk so much the night before. Booze was my closest friend. I couldn’t tell it no, regardless of my current 12 hour shifts 7 days a week. I know my life would be much different and I might have a different outlook on life, had I kept drinking to a minimal instead of drinking to pass-out. “Why should I stop drinking?” I argued to myself, “I work in one of the most dangerous job in the oil industry. I make 60,000 a year in my early twenties, and I travel to a new city every couple weeks. Every co-worker I have drinks to oblivion, and they wouldn’t let me stay in and miss out on all the good times.”
My job as an inert vessel entry technician kept me extremely busy. I would travel to different oil refineries in the country and replace the catalyst in the crude-oil catalytic reactors. My main job was to climb down the reactor in full PPE (Personal Protective Equipment) to clean, vacuum, and load catalyst. For those of you who are new to the oil refinery process, catalyst is a chemically designed product used in extremely high heat, roughly 18,000 ferinheight, for chemical separation of crude-oil. The expired catalyst is usually pyrophoric (spontaneously combusts in oxygen) and covered in toxic chemicals like benzene, hydrogen sulfide (kills people instantly), and arsenic. My PPE consisted of fire retardant coveralls, class C chemical suit, steel toe boots, gloves, full body harness, and a locked-on life support helmet. Needless to say, I wore 60 pounds of protective gear and it was very necessary.
“DANIEL”, my boss shouted. “Check your gear and suit up, you’re going in.” It was a long climb to the top of the 180ft reactor by ladder and it can seem as if it never ends. Luckily, I was still drunk from the night before and I was emerged in playful scenarios of nights prior. This job, of climbing down IDLH (Immediately Dangerous to Life and Health) atmospheres is incredibly dangerous and unnerving, but I had done it hundreds of times before and have always come up alive and in one piece.
“SHHHHHHHHHH,” I could hear the oxygen flow from my air supply line before I closed the face of my helmet. Then silence hit, and my breathing is the only sound I hear. The helmet produces a sound very similar to that of Darth Vader in star wars. Slow breaths in and out, in and out were soon interrupted by my heart bumping my chest like a soft sledge hammer. It was slowly getting darker and darker as I climbed down a pitch black hole filled with deadly gases and chemicals. “Check Check, Daniel can you hear me?” The communication line was finally connected and it won’t be long before I have light. “Check Check” I replied, “I hear you just fine.” The lighting system we used inside the reactors are all temporary light similar to flash lights and drop lights. These lights are dropped in after I make entry to the second level of the reactor, so the first 10 feet are very slow and dark. The entry point of the second level is a small 15X18inch section not designed for a human with 60 pounds of gear. The Helmet alone is 14 Inches from ear to ear and 16in front to back. It will be a tight fit going in and almost impossible fit getting out. I slowly made my way down the 6ft sections of ladder, and through the small opening. I was extremely careful to watching my gear and to make sure my air lines didn’t get tangled or caught. I managed to get my body and gear through without trouble, and it was time for the tedious task of getting my helmet through without breaking my air lines. The helmet was too long to go through straight. So I was forced to turn my head sideways facing my shoulder, and expose my air lines, on the side, to damage.
I made it through without troubles and worked the full day inside the reactor. I know most of world isn’t familiar with breathing through straws for eight hours, but that is what it feels like to breath in a locked-on helmet all day. I was weak from manual labor and lack of oxygen, not to mention the long night of alcohol abuse, but I got the job done and I skipped lunch to finish early. It was a 160ft climb to the opening and then I would be free. The climb to the top seemed to never end, each six foot section of our constantly swaying ladder added fatigue and pain to my already weary strength. The ladders we use are attached to the top man-whole, and pieced together with locking pins every six feet. This style of entry system, allowed us to make entry into any vessel, but created an unstable climb.
Finally, I reached the first entry point inside the vessel. My breathing is much more intense now and the air allowance feels much more restricting. Each breath feels like an upcoming asthma attack, like I will never have another deep breath again. My heart is pounding rapidly; it consumes my attention and feels as though I am receiving chest compressions in CPR. My arms and legs are rubber from hours of labor and my recent climb. The extremely small man-way (entry point) requires all my attention, if I rush through or experience any claustrophobic ideals I will break my only life preserving equipment and die immediately. I begin to navigate my helmet and airline through the small 15x18 man-way; remember my helmet is 14 inches sideways and allows ½in of clearance on each side. My vision is restricted in the helmet to a small partially foggy face shield, similar to that of a motorcycle helmet. I feel calmed and relieved when my helmet clears; I didn’t break my equipment and I can start forcing my body through.
I get a good stance on the suspended ladder and prepare to push my body through the opening. My shoulders are bigger than the opening; my only option is to reach my arms through the opening like a young boy awaiting his shirt from mom. “SNAP” the ladder below brakes; I am suspended in air with my helmet and arms through the opening. My helmet wedges in the opening and is supporting my body and equipment weight. I frantically reach for something, anything to grab, but my arms are wedged towards the sky with nothing around. I call for help with my microphone; it’s been disconnected. I can feel the pressure of my weight pulling my chin from its once secure position. My sweat is acting like a lubricant, allowing my chin to slide slowly through the locked pressure. I am helpless. Below, is a pitch black atmosphere that will kill me the minute I take my first breath out of my helmet. The more I move and struggle the more my chin slides. I stop. I remain motionless for a 20 second eternity. I flex my jaw with all the energy and strength I can muster to help me keep my position in the helmet. To no avail I continue to slide; I don’t have the energy or strength in my jaw to support 260 pounds. My mind is racing as I slide closer and closer to a certain death. Suddenly, my mind becomes blank and I feel fear throughout my entire body. My chin slips completely out of the helmet, but I didn’t fall. My co-worker locked my fall prevention cable and was manually cranking the cable. The slip I felt from my helmet, was enough to tighten the cable. I wasn’t going to die. My chin and mouth were exposed to the atmosphere, but I was breathing the supplied oxygen through my nose. My arms found something to hang on to, it was my helmet; I held my helmet down to my head with every ounce of strength I had. I was being cranked out of the reactor like a fish from the well of a small village.
My top safety was preparing the top deck for my exit when all of this was happening. I don’t believe in luck. I believe in divine help. The top safety’s job is very simple, watch the technician in the reactor (Me) and do not sleep. He had been sleeping the entire time I was in the vessel, and neglected to watch my exit. I asked him when I reached the top safely, and many other times after, what it was that prompted him to check on me? His only reply, I knew I needed to check on you. He isn’t a spiritual person; on the contrary he spent the previous fifteen years in a prison for murder and felt god had abandoned him.
I believe in the power and divine help of angels. I know my Father in Heaven is watching me. I wasn’t involved with religion at the time; moreover, I was very much against it and its teachings. He sent his angels to protect me from falling and to push this ex-con to my aid. My weight alone should have pulled me immediately from my sweaty helmet, but it didn’t. I don’t believe this event was a coincidence or a lucky time in my life. I know this was divine help from our Lords servants, even angels. This I believe…
