All this stuff in the news about the commencement of offshore drilling in the Falkland Islands brings back vivid memories of the previous drilling round which took place in 1998, which I was there for. I wanted to write a bit about it because the time I spent on the island gave me a lot of inspiration for my science-fiction writing, and three of my stories (Remnants, Galileo's Tides and The Techipre Filament) are based on memories of that trip. This blog entry will be in four parts.
At the time I was working for one of the oil companies drilling there (obviously) and I remember there was some speculation as to whether I would get to go with the exploration team who were headed down to the Islands. But, given the remote location it was decided that my IT skills would be essential to set up and maintain the email/phone link to the London office, and ensure the team's laptops and PC's were working at all times. The project was costing $100,000 a day, so downtime would be costly. The work itself was mundane, stuff I did on a day-to-day basis in London; it was just the location that was different.
So we flew out of Stansted airport one evening in mid-September 1998 on a 747 with 80 seats. An extravagant unbranded white aeroplane that, rumour had it, once belonged to the Sultan of Brunei. In our team were the chief geologist, the accountant and myself. The plane was full of drilling crew on rotation, most of whom were from Aberdeen. Although there were lie-flat seats, we spent most of the time in the conference room (yes, this plane had a conference room) talking about whether there really was oil in the North Falklands Basin, and what that would mean for the local economy. After a sixteen hour flight (not including a refuel at Recife), we disembarked onto the flat, endless tarmac at Mount Pleasant Airforce Base and rode in a minibus for an hour some 40 kilometres across a barren, sun-dappled, Dartmoor-like landscape.
Port Stanley, the world's most southerly "city" eventually appeared over the horizon. It seemed at first like little more that a row of bungalows and beach houses in a northern seaside coastal town, and grew to be only a little more. We stopped off at the staff-house, one such bungalow, where the other members of the team were staying, to say hello and regroup with the other Operations staff who'd flown down earlier. There was no room for me and the accountant in the house, we were checked into the Malvina House Hotel, a lovely little place that overlooked the inlet and the War Memorial, and had a quaint, chintzy charm that reminded me of beach holidays in the late 1970s. We all had dinner and drinks there the first night, and once again the drunken conversation between brash oil men turned to what seemed like a career-making or career-breaking question; was there oil in the Falklands? What I wanted to know was, would I get to go to the rig?
The next morning we travelled to the Stanley offices up on the hill to the east of the town. These were nothing but a set of portacabins and a small car park that were being passed between the different oil companies that had clubbed together to share resources thoughout the drilling round. We were to take it over in a couple of days and run our operation via Cable and Wireless data link to London (via an equatorial satellite and Aberdeen), and the offshore rig, via another satellite. At great cost, it would be possible to pick up the phone, both in the Stanley office and on the rig, dial 9, and get a local London line.
Port Stanley felt remote, no doubt about it. It was hundreds of miles from the nearest civilisation, and that remoteness gets under your skin. With an area the size of Wales and a population of only 2000, I really felt a long way from home. When I first arrived there I could think of nothing more desolate than having to live in such an empty location. But the Falklands has a certain magic about it, and I'm sure that anyone who goes there, never forgets it. I remember on the second day meeting a couple who had decided to move to the Islands from the UK only five months earlier, and I wondered how they could decide to make such a move. But all these years later I can sort of understand it.
Check back soon for Part Two, where I explore my surroundings.
At the time I was working for one of the oil companies drilling there (obviously) and I remember there was some speculation as to whether I would get to go with the exploration team who were headed down to the Islands. But, given the remote location it was decided that my IT skills would be essential to set up and maintain the email/phone link to the London office, and ensure the team's laptops and PC's were working at all times. The project was costing $100,000 a day, so downtime would be costly. The work itself was mundane, stuff I did on a day-to-day basis in London; it was just the location that was different.
So we flew out of Stansted airport one evening in mid-September 1998 on a 747 with 80 seats. An extravagant unbranded white aeroplane that, rumour had it, once belonged to the Sultan of Brunei. In our team were the chief geologist, the accountant and myself. The plane was full of drilling crew on rotation, most of whom were from Aberdeen. Although there were lie-flat seats, we spent most of the time in the conference room (yes, this plane had a conference room) talking about whether there really was oil in the North Falklands Basin, and what that would mean for the local economy. After a sixteen hour flight (not including a refuel at Recife), we disembarked onto the flat, endless tarmac at Mount Pleasant Airforce Base and rode in a minibus for an hour some 40 kilometres across a barren, sun-dappled, Dartmoor-like landscape.
Port Stanley, the world's most southerly "city" eventually appeared over the horizon. It seemed at first like little more that a row of bungalows and beach houses in a northern seaside coastal town, and grew to be only a little more. We stopped off at the staff-house, one such bungalow, where the other members of the team were staying, to say hello and regroup with the other Operations staff who'd flown down earlier. There was no room for me and the accountant in the house, we were checked into the Malvina House Hotel, a lovely little place that overlooked the inlet and the War Memorial, and had a quaint, chintzy charm that reminded me of beach holidays in the late 1970s. We all had dinner and drinks there the first night, and once again the drunken conversation between brash oil men turned to what seemed like a career-making or career-breaking question; was there oil in the Falklands? What I wanted to know was, would I get to go to the rig?
The next morning we travelled to the Stanley offices up on the hill to the east of the town. These were nothing but a set of portacabins and a small car park that were being passed between the different oil companies that had clubbed together to share resources thoughout the drilling round. We were to take it over in a couple of days and run our operation via Cable and Wireless data link to London (via an equatorial satellite and Aberdeen), and the offshore rig, via another satellite. At great cost, it would be possible to pick up the phone, both in the Stanley office and on the rig, dial 9, and get a local London line.
Port Stanley felt remote, no doubt about it. It was hundreds of miles from the nearest civilisation, and that remoteness gets under your skin. With an area the size of Wales and a population of only 2000, I really felt a long way from home. When I first arrived there I could think of nothing more desolate than having to live in such an empty location. But the Falklands has a certain magic about it, and I'm sure that anyone who goes there, never forgets it. I remember on the second day meeting a couple who had decided to move to the Islands from the UK only five months earlier, and I wondered how they could decide to make such a move. But all these years later I can sort of understand it.
Check back soon for Part Two, where I explore my surroundings.
That's a fascinating pos Huw. Looking forward to the next part :-)
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