A Day at the Beach

htt While mudlogging for CORE Labs after graduating college with my degree in geology, I sat a well in south Texas that took about six weeks to drill. It was not that the well was that deep or the drilling that slow, but it was quite simply the well from hell.


Everything that could possibly go wrong did go wrong. The sand-shale sequence through which we were drilling was unconsolidated, the drilling fast and the hole soon crooked. Well bores are never truly vertical because the drill bit rotates causing the pipe to corkscrew. A dogleg sometimes occurs that results in the borehole changing direction abruptly. This was the case in our well and it created worlds of problems every time the crews made a bit trip.

My fellow mudloggers and I only worked when the well was actually turning to the right. Two drilling superintendents had already been relieved of duty because of problems on the well. The new superintendent decided to try to fix the drilling problem before he became number three.

When dealing with problems encountered miles below the earth’s surface, it is impossible to estimate the time it might take to correct the problem. Because of this, the company placed Jack, Art and me on stand-by. This was okay with us because the company paid us and we did not have to work for it.

The quick fix to the drilling problem did not occur and by the third day, the three of us were tired of hanging around Weslaco. We decided to take a field trip to South Padre Island for a little fun in the sun. After icing down several six packs of beer, we headed for the beach. By the time we reached sun and sand, we were all “two sheets to the wind,” as they say.

Jack was the senior man but he was only about thirty. What bad habits that Art and I did not already possess, we learned from Jack. Art and I worked on the beer while Jack had a bottle of Jack Daniel’s that he tippled straight from the bottle. Jack was smart enough to let Art drive while he sat in the front seat giving us directions from a tattered Texas road map.

South Padre Island is a barrier bar that parallels the Texas Gulf coast and stretches for miles and miles. We were looking for a beach with lots of gorgeous and scantily clad females but after miles of driving, we continued to see only bare sand. Art finally spotted some people sunning on the beach and frolicking in the surf.

“I don’t see a road,” he said.

“There are no trees or ditches,” Jack said. “Just cut cross country.”

This seemed like a perfectly good idea to both Art and me. It was not. Within fifty feet, we were stuck up to the hubs in sand and thirty minutes of effort beneath hot Texas sun failed to extricate us.

“Leave it here,” Jack said. “I’m hot as hell. Let’s take a swim.”

This also seemed like a good idea to Art and me. Following Jack to the beach, we proceeded to strip down to our boxer shorts and dive into the surf. In the manner of all good Texas oilmen, we were loud, boisterous, brazen and very drunk. Within minutes, the crowded beach cleared leaving only the three of us to frolic in the surf.

We had no towels, no umbrella and no swim trunks. Our cold beer in the trunk was a hundred yards away through ankle deep hot sand. After an hour in the humidity and beneath the south Texas sun, we had all begun sobering up. A good thing as we were able to free the car when we finally returned to it.

Down the road, we found a recreation area with a hotdog stand and many souvenir shops. Even though we had our clothes back on, the crowd reaction was pretty much the same. They all apparently saw us for what we were – “oil field trash.” We ate a few hotdogs, ogled ever girl in sight and then headed back to Weslaco.

I awoke the next morning with a pounding head, queasy stomach and painful sunburn. Worse, we learned the well was drilling again.

I wish I could say that I learned a valuable lesson from this experience. Well maybe I did. I realized that it is a bad idea to leave behind an ice chest loaded with beer even though you intend to go little more than a hundred yards away.

Eric'sWeb

Throwing the Bull

A year ago, Marilyn watched the Country Music Awards on television. While passing the set, I stopped to hear an interview with Reba McIntyre. “This,” the interviewer said, “is your tenth year to host the Awards. How does it make you feel?”

Reba’s answer went something like this: “I can’t believe it’s been ten years and I can’t believe they keep inviting me back.”

Ten years is a long time but not the first time that I saw Reba in person. It was at Gilley’s – the honky-tonk immortalized by the movie Urban Cowboy - in Pasadena, Texas near Houston, the year 1981.

I was on a road trip with friends Andy and John to attend off-road motorcycle races at the Houston Astrodome. All the racers were riding road bikes, except for one racer. He had a small-block dirt bike, I can’t remember the make, and he did a number on all the other racers.

Dirt bikes weren’t a novelty at the time and I wonder now why someone hadn’t thought of the idea before 1981. As it stands, I now think that I witnessed the changing of the guard when it comes to off-road racing.

John, Andy and I – especially Andy – were motorcycle enthusiasts, Andy a racer himself. Andy had an Italian Laverda Motoplast and we once rented Hallett Motor Speedway, just outside Tulsa, for the weekend, but that’s another story. We saw plenty of motorcycle racing during the weekend and did lots of drinking. One of the bars we visited was Gilley’s.

The disco era was all but done but country and western line dancing was almost like disco. John Travolta is a great actor but probably thought of more as a dancer after his hit movie Saturday Night Fever. I’m sure his dancing ability got him the part but his acting was flawless – as was everyone else’s in the movie.

We were already half-tanked when we made it to Gilley’s. The place was large, loud and dark. It seems like it had about four distinct areas, the bar, a game room, dance floor and the mechanized bull area. I could be wrong about this because, like I said, we were all half-tanked.

I’m sure we paid a cover charge at the door because there were two bands that night, a warm-up band whose name I can’t remember, and the one that backed up young C & W singer Reba McIntyre. It didn’t take anyone in the place very long before realizing she would soon be a certified country super star.

After many more Buds, I tried a little line dancing. The steps, as I mentioned, were a lot like disco line dancing and I had no trouble melding in, though I wore no jeans, boots or Stetson. Finally, sufficiently liquored up, we made it to the room with the motorized bull. John and Andy were too intelligent to try the mechanized beast but, well, I wasn’t that smart. Before long I was waving to the cheering crowd and climbing on the bull.

There are no mechanized bulls anymore, at least as far as I know. The reason is simple: they are far too dangerous. I found this out about ten seconds into the ride. The operator started out slow as I held on with one hand, whooping it up like some deranged banshee. Finally, he cranked it up a notch, sending my heart, and my rear end, up around my throat. I landed on the hardwood floor like a sack of ripe potatoes, bouncing a time or two before coming to an ignominious stop.

All the pretty cowgirls and the less-than-impressed cowboys booed me as I limped off the stage. A real cowboy took the bull shortly after my unending, thankfully stealing away the attention from me as I slunk away into the darkness. John and Andy were rolling in laughter but at least they had a cold beer for me.

As I watched Reba, I realized the years have been good to her. And me? I’m a little smarter now because I still remember that saucer-sized bruise on my butt from bouncing around on Gilley’s hardwood floor. Hey, not much smarter because with the right amount of Budweiser, I might give the old bull one more try.

Fiction South

Big Billy's White Bean Chicken Chili - a recipe

Several years ago, I sold a geologic prospect to a Dallas company. Much as it is now, times in the oil patch were tough. Part of the requirement for buying my prospect was that I had to help them “promote” it to the industry. They paid my airfare and expenses, and their engineer Don and I spent almost a year traveling all over the country trying to sell it. We never quite accomplished our goal.

After a day of showing the prospect to various Dallas companies, landman Charlie and I visited a dark Texas bar to unwind from the stressful day. He thought I was crazy when I heard a booming voice in the darkness and I said, “I know that voice.”

It was a friend of mine holding court at the bar. I hadn’t seen him in ten years, but no one on earth sounded like him. He was big, six four, three-hundred pounds and his voice was as deep and melodious as any television announcer was. His name was Big Bill Boorhem.

We renewed our friendship and he subsequently bought a prospect from me and drilled nine shallow wells on it. He and Kathy, his significant other, moved to Seattle on their sailboat, and then back to Texas. When Anne became ill with cancer, they would come up from Texas, cook for us and generally try to help us keep our spirits up.

Bill owned a restaurant for a time in Dallas called Suds and Duds. He knew many great southwestern recipes and loved “Austin” music.

Bill, alas, didn’t live much longer than Anne, succumbing to lung disease. No, he wasn’t a smoker. Here is one of his recipes that I recited to my Mother over the phone and she returned to me sometime later in a letter.

Bill, like me, loved beer. I got him to drinking brewpub beer and he became somewhat of a “beer snob.” His favorite was Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. I’m telling you this because I know you will love his recipe. When you are having your first scrumptious bowl, pop the top on a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale and toast Big Billy for both of us.

Big Billy’s White Bean Chicken Chili

1 ½ lbs chicken breast, cut into bite sized pieces
2 Tbsp olive oil
3 large cloves minced garlic
1 tsp cumin
½ tsp cayenne pepper
½ tsp chili powder
½ tsp salt
3 cups chicken broth
1 lb white beans, cooked and drained
1 large onion, diced (about 1 ¾ cups)

Heat a large pot over medium-high heat. Add oil, onion, celery, chicken and salt. Sauté until the onion is transparent and chicken begins to brown. Add remaining ingredients.

Bring to a boil, lower heat and simmer, covered, for 45 minutes.

Top with a dollop of sour cream, a sprinkling of cheddar cheese, and sliced green onions just before serving.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Lost in East Texas

My paternal grandparents lived on a forty-acre east Texas farm. Cass County is the most northeastern county in Texas and its border is only a few miles from where I lived in northwest Louisiana.

My real paternal grandfather abandoned Grandmother Dale before my dad was born. Dad never met his father and I feel that he was extra protective of his mother because of this. Living only about thirty miles from the Cass County farm, we visited almost every weekend. Sitting around the farmhouse and chatting was usually too boring for me so I would often hike in the woods. Grandma Rood always had a big friendly dog that would accompany me on my treks.

The east Texas countryside of Cass County rolls and is heavily wooded. I would crawl through the barbwire fence surrounding the farmhouse, Grandma’s dog not far behind, and take off down the hill, into the woods. One particular trip turned out more eventful than the others did.

It was summer, east Texas weather hot, humid and uncomfortable. I crossed the little creek near the end of Grandma Dale’s forty and decided to explore the terrain over the back fence. Even the big yellow dog was a little reluctant but he followed when he saw me disappear up the hill, into a thick stand of pines.

I learned later that it’s difficult maintaining your sense of direction when you are walking amid closely spaced trees. At the time I didn’t know any better. I was climbing a particularly high hill and anxious to discover what was on top.

Big Dog and I soon reached a clearing near the hilltop, many sandstone boulders protruding from the earth. Seeing a particularly large boulder, I climbed up on it for a better look.

Pine trees in east Texas are thick and they hampered my view beyond fifty feet, or so. I did see something else: an inscription carved in the boulder. The initials E.W. and the year 1872 were still visible beneath the greenish lichen covering much of the boulder.

Big Dog and I spent the next hour exploring the hill and looking for more inscriptions on the other boulders. We didn’t find any and finally took off down the hill, not realizing that we had gone in the wrong direction. When we reached the base of the hill, I began following an indistinct trail that I found. Big Dog wouldn’t follow and I soon learned why.

I found myself locked in the grasp of a large briar patch that jutted from the ground almost to my face. Soon, I didn’t know which way I had come or where I should go, sweat beading down my arms and mingling with blood from briar scratches that were becoming increasingly more numerous.

Movement through the briar patch was slow and painful. When I finally clawed my way to the edge of the patch, I emerged with a wild yelp of accomplishment. My momentary elation ended quickly when I realized that I was alone, Big Dog no where around.

I was late in the afternoon when I reached a dirt road with no idea which direction to take. Deciding it didn’t really matter, I walked to the right. Fifteen minutes later I heard the rumble of a car’s engine in the distance and I still remember how relieved I was when the hood of my parent’s blue and white Chevy finally appeared in front of me. It was my Mother and Brother. My Dad had taken my grandparent’s car and was looking for me in another direction.

My Brother Jack was a Boy Scout and used some obscure scouting rule to figure out where I was. We weren’t far from the house as the crow flies, but more than five miles away by country road. My Grandmother just shook her head when I told her about the carved inscription on the boulder.

“Maybe it was one of your long-lost relatives,” she said.

Big Dog had already made it home but sometime later he disappeared and never returned. Grandma said that probably either a bobcat got him or else he fell in a hole. I don’t think so and I always felt a little guilty about it. Maybe I had instilled the wanderlust in him. Maybe, but in the back of my mind I like to believe there was another place he needed to be and I just gave him the okay to go there.

Louisiana Mystery Writer