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The Cruel Companion

By

Graham McNeal

 Synopsis

The adventure story “The Cruel Companion” is a tale of an ordinary man cast suddenly, from a holiday on the north-east coast of England, into a fight for his own survival on the North Sea. The story is action packed, as, drifting out to sea in thick fog, he comes eventually to an oil rig. He senses this as the solution to his nightmare, but the story takes many a turn, culminating in a helicopter from Aberdeen rescuing him from his ordeal. The trial however continues. Interjected into the story is humour and romance, however it is also factual. The specific oil rig exists and the inspiration for the plot is based upon the author’s visit to it.

 

Chapter 5 - in part

The task seemed impossible, a small open boat with an exhausted occupant trying to mount the rig, who knows how high the legs were? Eighty or one hundred feet perhaps. it was so difficult to tell from where Patrick was and now there was a new danger, the sea, although by North Sea standards fairly calm, was surging around the legs, threatening to smash the tiny craft against the structure. Time and again Patrick had to use the oars to push his cockleshell craft away from the legs as he tried to fathom a way of scaling the monster. “Surely there must be someone up there who could see his plight, they have lifeboats don’t they? Must concentrate; watch out for that angled cross member, if I get under that I am dead, push away from it, push away NOW!” He pushed with the oars and the boat moved away, just a little, but enough. Now he was riding in the boat on the surge up the legs and he saw it, his only chance, there were welded rungs above the water line on one leg, if he could only manoeuvre the boat underneath, with luck and good timing he might just be able to leap and grab one and then climb all the way to the superstructure. “Leaping from a boat of this size will be all but impossible”, he told himself, “and what if I missed?” Looking at the boat he saw the rope which had been in the bows of the skiff.  With that and the rope used for the sea anchor, perhaps he could get it through a rung and then use it to climb up to the first rung, after that it should be easier. Throwing it would not work, he could never get it through the rung that way, there must be a way, all the time he was frantically trying to keep close to the leg but avoid being smashed against it. The oars, they were the answer, holding an oar with the blade upright, he might just be able to jam the blade through the rung, and then turn the oar at right angles to jam it in place; he could then climb up it!!

 

This certainly seemed the only way to climb to safety, but it was fraught with danger. If he was able to jam the oar in the rung, it might rotate and fall out whilst he was climbing, plunging him into the sea. The skiff would certainly have drifted away by then and even if he was fortunate enough to fall back into it, he might sink the boat with the force of his impact.

 

He would have to try a practice thrust at the rung and see if he could secure the oar, timing in relation to the swell would be crucial. Patrick could see that the rung would probably be reachable with the up thrust oar, but he would need to make his move as the swell at the leg reached its highest point, one or two feet extra would be essential. For several minutes he practiced, first of all, standing in the skiff, this was not easy as anyone who has tried to stand in a small boat wilt testify; the feeling that he was going to topple over swamping his boat was very strong. He was in a stooped position clutching like a man possessed to his oar, assessing the swell and the moment to

strike. Suddenly, he made his move and the top of the swell, almost in desperation he lunged with the oar, upward, he felt the oar jam behind the rung, he rotated it, it held, but the force of his thrust had pushed the skiff away from under him and, as it sank into a trough, he was left dangling by one hand clutched vice-like onto his oar. Feet flailing he sought for a foothold, but there was none, he was committed to climb or plunge into the sea so close to his feet. Shoulder and arm muscles screamed in agony as he tried to hold on and get a grip with his other hand. He managed to swing his body and his other hand made contact with the oar.

 

“Now climb or die,” he said to himself, even though he felt as if his body could take no more. Pictures of his children flashed momentarily before him and one brief

glimpse of Lucy, he would do it, and he would do it. Slowly, one hand was passed over the other and he climbed! Hand over hand he climbed, his feet still flailing and searching for a foot hold to ease the agony in his arms and hands, closer and closer to the blade of he oar which remained jammed behind the rung, closer and closer to another challenge, managing to get beyond this rung to the next and the one after before he could find that vital foothold. Anxious fingertips now touched the first rung, and then his fingers were able to grasp the red rusty metal. He hung for a moment to get his breath. Not daring to look down he pulled hard on the rung and secured a hold with his other hand on the next one up. As he let go of the oar it turned and fell from the rung. Momentarily distracted, Patrick watched it fall into the sea, and in that brief glimpse he could see that the skiff had now drifted out of sight. There really had only been one option, now there was no doubt. Redoubling his efforts he managed to pull himself up to the next rung and at last, he could now get his feet on the first one. He was now in a semi stooped position, his feet on one rung, his hands a bare two rungs up with his bottom projecting out from the leg of the rig. Gradually he was able to straighten his legs and in so doing, was able to reach higher still. Pausing to draw breath once again he was able to rest his arms and hands, and then he noted that blood was seeping from numerous cuts on his hands, presumably the result of the rust on the legs. His skin colour was a dull red from both the blood and the rust. Looking upwards he could see the rungs above him, but in the poor light under the rig and the mist still swirling around, was there something else? He thought he could see the base of a walkway which seemed to go to at least two other legs of the rig for it was fixed to the leg he was on and projected out on the other side to be lost in the mist. He estimated the height to be another thirty feet above him. Patrick reasoned that if there was a walkway, presumably there would be stairs to it. His discovery gave him new vigour, climbing faster now that his legs could take the strain he came ever closer to the construction. He could now see it was indeed a walkway and there was a metal staircase leading from it, up the leg of the rig   to safety! “Thank God” Patrick said to himself as he eased himself ever closer to it. There would be a problem however, he was of course underneath it, so he would need to manoeuvre himself from this position to grasp the side of the walkway and once more rely on his already exhausted arms and hands to grasp the side of the metal support which carried the metal tread...