Oil Catastrophe

We are doing much better today collecting oil. Despite the forcast for rain the day has been nothing but sunshine and a warm breeze. As the Enterprise off our port burns off gas and steadily produces what the top hat is collecting we continue to skim the polluted seas. The ocean is a dreary dead zone, and a endless expanse of zigzagging crimson streaks of oil. The small boom boat relentless seeks each patch while the manager who sits perched high atop the birds nest - we really have one of those - radio's commands to come to port, or come to starboard as we tack towards our prey. Our holds nearly full now, and soon we'll be heading to the barge to offload.

They keep the ships insides the temperature of a meat locker, but despite this I spend most of time inside having remembered what those VOC fumes did to me last time. I have examined a number of crewmen with headaches that are likely related. The industrial hygienist continues his vigil to monitor the VOC's, but never once has a warning been given to evacuate the back decks because of a high reading. The fumes, no matter what the meter may read, cannot be good for anyone. When I need to defrost from the chill I reconnoiter the bow giving myself a walk about. My spirit sinks when I look 360 degrees from horizon to horizon and see no life, no birds, no fish, no whales, no dolphins...not even a jellyfish. I let my eyeglasses defrost while leaning on the bow railing, and stare sojourn at the tea colored chop while mentally absorbing the catastrophe. I imagine the BOP 5,000 feet down spewing a black cloud of death that forms underwater cumulus clouds widening out near the surface catching various currents and chasing away the sharks and tuna. It's all in my head of course, god knows what it must look like down there, and I don't mean just what the ROV's show us.

The crew on board fully expect to order a Christmas tree for the galley and lounge. A disaster with seemingly no end in site. I wonder how many fellow humans now driving their cars, picking up their groceries at the store, or spending that tax check on some new electronic gizmo made by suicidal Chinese slaves ever make the connection to the sin that I stare at from the deck of this ship? "Forgive them father, for they know not what they do..." is the only quote that comes to my mind. I'm just as contributory too, just as sinful, and I hold myself in contempt for knowing not what I do, or what alternative I could drag my love ones into. What possible population could we live in that is bereft of oil?

This is the beginning and the end.