GWO BTT: The big industry problem that nobody's talking about
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My first offshore trip promised stories to rival my dad’s. After the shortest “induction” ever, I was on a turbine in borderline weather - the return to the boat was tense, unexpected, and somehow ended with the best cup of tea.
After a week away on an onshore turbine, I got sent to Wales. This one was different. This time, I was going offshore.
It felt huge. My dad had worked offshore most of my childhood, sometimes for months at a time, even in Africa. I’d grown up hearing his stories about mad jobs, questionable food, and the kind of laughs that only happen when you’re stuck with the same people for weeks.
I knew I wasn’t about to start matching him tale for tale, but the idea of having my own offshore stories to throw into the mix over a pint with him? That felt good.
Packing like I was moving to Mars.
Once again, I packed as if I was being deployed to the moon for six months...we were going for four days. We booked into a hotel, miles from site, naturally, and by the end of this trip I’d learned two key lessons:
- Pack lighter.
- Pick hotels closer to site.
The “site induction” (if you can call it that).
Me and another apprentice turned up for our induction. The site supervisor met us in the “mess”: military slang gets thrown around offshore because so many ex-forces lads work in the industry. This bloke was so laid back he was practically horizontal.
“I’m here to give you your site induction,” he said.
Then he kicked the bin.
“That’s the bin.”
We laughed. He laughed.
Next, he showed us the microwave. The chuckle turned into a “what’s going on here?” smirk between me and the other apprentice “That’s about it really lads. Oh, and make sure you reverse park in the morning.”
I asked, “I thought we were supposed to be getting a proper site induction?”
“You’ll be fine… unless you go into town at night. It’s a shithole.”
No muster points. No safety brief. Just bin, microwave, and parking tips. 10/10 for efficiency.
Into the storeroom.
We mentioned we needed gloves and glasses, so he walked us over to the storeroom. On the way, he casually filled in all the useful details - what to expect on the boat, what we’d be doing, which team we’d be on, where to meet in the morning.
The storeroom was full of parts I couldn’t name. When you’re new, it’s all just “turbine stuff.” I knew the basics: tower, nacelle, hub. But the rest - hydraulics, valves, cabinets - was just noise. It takes weeks before you stop feeling like you’ve walked into someone else’s workshop by accident.
First impressions on the boat.
The next morning, I turned up to meet my team. Intimidating bunch. Not because of size or attitude, just because they looked like they’d been born in a harness and I still had the shine of a brand-new hi-vis.
Then, once we got going, the mood shifted. The lads started chatting.
“Don’t worry, mate - when we get to the turbine I’ll sort your kit and show you the ropes.”
The skipper and deckhand were even more relaxed. They were already plotting when they could get a line in for a bit of fishing.
The weather was “borderline” for pick-up. I didn’t know it yet, but “borderline” in offshore terms is somewhere between “you’ll be fine” and “make sure your will’s up to date.”
Stepping onto the turbine.
At the turbine, my team lead sorted timings with the skipper while I wrestled with my harness, turning it into a pretzel of tangled lanyards. The others made it look effortless.
Climbing onto the transition piece from the boat was…exciting. The boat pushed against the ladder, the engine roared, and waves rolled in underneath us. I watched the first guy go up like my life depended on memorising every move.
Halfway up, I realised I’d been telling myself: “One foot in front of the other. Don’t cock this up.”
So focused I climbed higher than I needed and had to come down a few rungs to actually step onto the platform.
Stopping the turbine.
We craned our kit up and headed to the level where you stop the turbine.
“Ever stopped one before?” the lead asked.
“No,” I replied.
“Here, you do it.”
He handed me the hand terminal; a thing many team leads guard like it’s the Crown Jewels. Pressing “stop” and hearing the hum wind down to silence felt like I’d just been trusted with the keys to the whole operation.
The ride home: welcome to borderline weather.
“Seas are picking up. We’re collecting Team 1, then heading to you.”
By the time we reached the ladder again, the turbine felt like a completely different place to the one we’d stepped onto that morning. The wind had picked up, the air felt sharper, and the waves below were moving in slow, heavy surges - big enough that you could feel them through the steel.
The team lead explained the drill: “When you get near the bottom, the boat might be moving a lot. Unclip from the ladder and wait for the deckhand’s signal before stepping off.”
Everything in my training brain was saying “never unclip at height”, but he explained why - if the boat drops while you’re clipped on, you can end up dangling in mid-air, and if it surges back up, it could hit you.
I nodded, but the logic didn’t take away the knot in my stomach.
The first guy went down ahead of me, moving with that unbothered confidence that only comes from years of doing it. He timed it perfectly; a couple of steps, a pause, the boat rose to meet him, and he stepped off as if he was walking onto a curb.
My turn.
I started down, eyes fixed on the ladder, fighting the urge to look back and down towards the boat. My hands gripped the ladder harder than they needed to, knuckles white inside my gloves. The boat rose and fell in the corner of my vision, and I could feel my body tensing with every swell.
“STOP!” the deckhand shouted.
I froze, boots planted, eyes on him. The boat dropped away, the sound of rubber screeching against the J-tubes was not exactly the most pleasant in the world.
“RIGHT, COME DOWN!”
Two steps lower. The swell was bigger now. Three, maybe four rungs worth of movement in a single lift from the water. I unclipped, heart thumping. I was wishing i could just stay on the turbine until the weather dropped off in a couple of days.
“GO UP, GO UP!” The shout was sharper this time.
I scrambled back up three steps, pressing myself into the ladder as the boat came back up, spray hitting my legs. The noise of the rubber was louder now, a dull thud followed by the slap of water.
We waited. The boat dropped again. Slower this time.
The deckhand gave me the go ahead, the signal I’d been holding my breath for.
Five rungs. Four. Three. Two, One, Step. And I was on.
I stepped into the boat, spaced out and the change in atmosphere was instant - from tense, noisy focus to the warm chilled out scene of guys leaning back in their chairs, kicking their boots off and that easy, end-of-the-day chatter.
“Didn’t die then?” a lad at the kettle said, “Fancy a brew?”
I laughed. “Yeah, go on then.”
Looking back, i would bet that this experience wouldn't even register for me now. I’ve been in a lot worse conditions and I’ve climbed 1000’s of times (who’s counting anyways). Now whenever I see someone who looks a bit unsure, I always make it a point to go over and chat to them and help them, like those guys did for me.
Professional note: Procedures and transfer methods vary by site, vessel, and weather conditions. The steps described here reflect one specific experience from my early career and should not be taken as training or advice. Always follow the official transfer procedures for your site and vessel.
Next week: Finding my feet, a home from home.
