The Story of a Hyperbaric weld

The Dive That Nearly Ended My Career

December ’81. For the fifth time that year, I found myself working in the Gulf of Mexico, on the Diving Support Vessel TARASCO. My arrival on board hadn’t been without a few emotions — the kind that, I suspect, produced my first three grey hairs.

It all began on November 30th, the day I left on Air France flight AF 067 bound for Houston.

As usual, I had chosen a window seat on the right-hand side. The cabin was calm, the afternoon movie had ended, and most passengers were reading or dozing while waiting for the snack service.

I had lifted the shade of my window and, to pass the time, was watching the Atlantic Ocean scroll by 10,000 metres below. No land, no ships — just water as far as the eye could see.

Then suddenly, far off on the horizon, a tiny black dot appeared, followed by a white trail.

“Ah, a plane!” I thought immediately.

At that altitude, horizontal visibility was excellent — easily several dozen kilometres. As I kept watching, I could see that the other aircraft, positioned at about two o’clock relative to our heading, was flying a course more or less perpendicular to ours.

Second after second, I noticed that the angle between our two aircraft wasn’t changing.

In other words, we were on a collision path.

What worried me was that the other aircraft seemed to be flying at almost the same altitude as us. Having earned my private pilot licence a few years earlier, I knew that theoretically the vertical separation between two air corridors should be at least 300 metres.

It had been about a minute since I first spotted the other aircraft, and it was clearly getting closer — dangerously closer.

“What are the pilots doing?” I wondered. Surely they had both switched on the autopilot and weren’t paying attention to what was happening outside.

“Do I have time to call the flight attendant and warn her?” No — TOO LATE!

Through the window, I saw the other aircraft heading straight toward us — then suddenly it vanished from my field of view.

It had just passed above us at less than fifty metres.

Inside the cabin, we heard a brief burst of jet noise, followed immediately by a few seconds of turbulence.

No one in the cabin, except a handful of passengers, realised how close we had come — apparently not even the pilots.

But I knew. We had just had a very narrow escape.

That evening in Mexico City, I had to go drink a few tequilas in the bars of the Zona Rosa to calm my nerves.

The next morning, 4:30 a.m. I woke up with a slight headache. For some reason I no longer remember, we had to travel to Ciudad del Carmen via Mérida instead of taking the usual direct flight.

6:30 a.m. departure for Mérida on a Boeing 737. The flight went smoothly.

Then, just before starting the descent, the captain made the following announcement:

“Señoras y señores, We will soon be arriving in Mérida. Landing conditions are not ideal due to thick fog at ground level. We will attempt an approach, but if it fails, we will divert to Cancún where the weather is better. Please straighten your seatbacks, etc., etc.”

Once again, I was seated at the rear right, next to a window.

Slowly, the pilot reduced power and began the descent. A few minutes later, flaps extended. We were still inside the clouds.

Landing gear down. Another left turn, and we were on final.

Full flaps, and the pilots were now adjusting the throttle to maintain a good approach angle.

Out the window — nothing. We were in thick pea soup.

Instinctively, I tightened my seatbelt.

Judging by the engine noise, I estimated we must be close to the runway.

There — I could see the ground. We were very low, 20 to 30 metres at most.

Suddenly, beneath the fuselage — grass.

We were nowhere near the runway axis.

At that exact moment, the pilots slammed full power, and within seconds the aircraft began climbing, retracting the landing gear.

But barely had the Boeing gained a few metres when I saw the right wing pass just above the control tower.

“Good grief! Another close call.”

A few moments later, once the situation was under control, another announcement:

“Señoras y señores, As you may have noticed, visibility at ground level was very poor. Since the airport is not equipped with an adequate approach system, we will divert to Cancún. We apologise for the inconvenience…”

A few dozen minutes later, we landed normally in Cancún.

Around noon, we were told the fog in Mérida had lifted and we could depart again.

By late afternoon, we finally arrived safely in Ciudad del Carmen, happy to return to our usual hotel for the night.

Needless to say, to soothe our nerves, we felt obliged to go drink a few cervezas in the local dives.

Day three of this long journey.

Meeting at 9:00 a.m. at the heliport.

There, a big, fat, greasy security officer checked our papers before allowing us into the waiting room reserved for personnel heading offshore.

Once the formalities were done, an attendant came to fetch us and lead us to the helicopter.

I recognised the pilot immediately. It was Rambo — a Vietnam War veteran who, judging by his flying style, seemed nostalgic for his combat days.

We loaded our bags into the hold and sat on the bench seats. Rambo greeted us, asked us to fasten our seatbelts and put on our noise‑cancelling helmets, then started the engine after completing his checklist.

The rotors began turning. The faster they spun, the louder the noise and the stronger the vibrations inside the cabin.

There — rotor speed must be good.

The pilot glanced left and right, then pulled the cyclic.

The helicopter lifted gently two or three metres, tilted slightly forward, and began moving toward the runway.

A small left turn, and we were facing the sea. Rambo began his climb.

BANG!

Suddenly, an explosion sounded above our heads.

“What was that?”

We exchanged worried looks — clearly something was wrong.

In less time than it takes to say it, the pilot dropped the aircraft back onto the ground and yelled at us to evacuate.

He didn’t need to tell us twice. We flung open the side doors and scrambled out.

Outside, a liquid was spurting intermittently from beneath the main rotor.

Instantly, the mental alarm DANGER — EXPLOSION lit up, and we sprinted away as fast as we could to get clear of the danger zone.

A tense moment — would it blow or not?

Luckily, nothing happened. The rotors stopped completely, and the leak ceased.

Apparently just a ruptured hydraulic hose.

Clearly, it wasn’t yet our appointment with the other world.

An hour later, another helicopter took us to our barge, where we finally arrived safe and sound on December 2nd, 1981.

Back on board after this eventful journey, our “stratif” informed me that I’d be on the night shift. Damn — I’ve never liked that shift. I always struggle to fall asleep in the afternoon, which means I struggle even more to wake up at 23:00.

Fortunately, I would only have to endure this rhythm for a few days, because I was scheduled to “go in the can” — enter saturation — in three days.

Sure enough, on December 6th, Saint Nicholas Day, I entered saturation at 12:59 with my mate Laurent. We settled in, took a short nap, and were already preparing for our first dive.

Since I had been awake for 15 hours, Laurent — who had done the day shift — offered to take the dive. I would be his bellman.

Everything went smoothly, and at 23:30 the bell resurfaced. A quick shower, a quick meal, and then twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep.

For now, we were doing pipeline tie‑ins by hyperbaric welding, which meant most dives in the following days were dedicated to preparing the installation of the underwater welding habitat

Friday, December 11–11:15

It was my turn to dive again.

While my colleague prepared the bell checklist, my compatriot Eugène — the Belgian night‑shift supervisor — quickly explained what I’d have to do.

Eugène: “Hi Francis, sleep well?”

Me: “Yeah, not bad, thanks.”

Eugène: “Okay, let me explain the situation at the bottom. The two pipeline ends are side by side. Patrick, the previous diver, took the measurements on the section to be removed and started cutting. But apparently he had some difficulties and preferred to stop. So your first job is to finish the cut.”

Me: “No problem.”

Everyone on board knew I loved cutting, and without false modesty, I was pretty good at it.

11:50 — we were on the bottom, and I was ready to exit the bell.

Me: “Surface, do you read me?”

Eugène: “Loud and clear, Francis.”

Me: “Okay, I’m going out.”

I slid slowly into the water. Standing on one of the counterweights, I took a quick look around to get my bearings.

Along one pipeline section, I could see the big 10‑ton lift bags swaying gently. On the seabed, a few metres from the bell, the end of the pipe I had to work on.

Me: “Okay surface, slack on the umbilical.”

Within seconds, I was on the bottom.

First observation: Patrick may well be, along with a handful of others, the King of Deep Diving — but when it comes to cutting, it’s enough to make you cry.

What should have been a clean, straight cut was instead a series of misaligned holes over 30 to 40 centimetres.

No problem — I could recover the situation by starting again just beside it.

But what worried me more was the diagonal gouge he had made on top of the pipe, about ten centimetres long.

Me: “Surface.”

Eugène: “Yes, I’m listening.”

Me: “Tell me, did Patrick explain what he did?”

Eugène: “Yes, as I said, he started the cut but stopped because it wasn’t going well.”

Me: “Well, I can tell you he made a real mess. Before continuing, I’m going to take new measurements because at first glance we’re out of tolerance.”

Eugène: “Oh really? Okay Francis, I’ll leave you with Jean‑Pierre — it’s noon. He’s taking over.”

Me: “Alright, good night Eugène.”

Jean‑Pierre G., the day‑shift supervisor, greeted me. I quickly explained the situation again while re‑measuring.

The pipe section to be removed had to be cut exactly 100 centimetres from the end of the second pipeline — that’s where the future sleeve would be welded to join the two lines.

Unfortunately, my fears were confirmed.

Me: “Surface.”

J‑P: “Listening.”

Me: “I’ve re‑measured. Patrick’s ‘machine‑gun cut’ is between 90 and 98 cm from the axis — no problem, I can recover that. But the little cut on top is between 102 and 110 cm. What do I do — cut at 110?”

J‑P: “Uh… stand by.”

After a few seconds of reflection, Jean‑Pierre told me to cut at the planned dimension — exactly one metre.

I was a bit puzzled.

Me: “Are you sure?”

J‑P: “Affirmative. Don’t worry about the gouge — the welders will fix it inside the chamber.”

Me: “Understood. Give me a moment, I’ll install my cutting guide.”

To make a perfectly straight cut, I had built a simple device: a nylon cord passed through a rubber hose so it wouldn’t burn. I wrapped it around the pipe at the cutting line and tightened it with a proper knot.

Before starting, I checked the contact clamp and ensured the oxygen was flowing at the right pressure through the Craftsweld torch.

I placed the tip of my pink steel tubular preferred electrode against the guide and announced:

Me: “Surface, I’m ready — make it hot.”

J‑P: “Hot!”

On the surface, the assistant flipped the power switch. Immediately, the 400 amps created an electric arc at the end of my rod, producing a soft, steady crackling as I moved it.

Me: “Cold!”

J‑P: “It’s cold!”

With the current cut, I could safely replace the electrode. Twenty seconds later, the new rod was in place, and I asked for contact again.

As I burned through my oxy‑arc rods, I wondered why so many divers in the company were such poor cutters. Without visibility, okay — you have to work by touch and sound, and that takes long practice. But with visibility like today? I didn’t get it.

If the famous Marseille school taught future divers not to fear the tool, and to hold the rod two or three centimetres from the arc, they’d already make huge progress — the electrode would move more steadily and cleanly.

Time passed, and I reached my ninth and last rod.

Me: “Surface, you can cut the power — I’m done.”

J‑P: “Ah Francis, damn, how do you do it? Fifteen minutes to cut 2.87 metres — impossible, I can’t believe it!”

Me: “Oh, it’s possible. You know why?”

J‑P: “No.”

Me: “Because deep down, Belgians aren’t that stupid! Heh heh heh!”

J‑P: “Alright, alright, you win. Can you go cut two lifting holes at the end of the pipe section?”

Me: “Sure, on my way.”

A few minutes later, I was done and sent the cutting gear back up.

J‑P: “Okay Francis, the torch is on deck. Can we send down the crane cable to lift the pipe section?”

Me: “No problem, send it.”

Ten minutes later, the pipe section was rigged and ready to be lifted.

Visibility was excellent, so I stepped back before the recovery manoeuvre.

Me: “Surface, you can take up the slack slowly.”

J‑P: “Taking up slowly.”

The excess cable rose, then tightened under the load.

Me: “Okay surface, the piece is free — you can lift it. I’m going under the bell for shelter.”

While waiting, I slipped into the bell for a quick drink — I knew what was coming next would be tougher.

I now had to begin removing the concrete coating from one pipe end over about seven metres.

They sent me a water‑jet gun that produced a thin jet at 1400 bar, capable of cutting through the 14 cm of concrete around the pipeline.

The tool was extremely effective — but far more dangerous than an oxy‑arc torch. One mistake could cause a very deep injury.

It was also exhausting: the trigger was hard to hold because of the pressure, and for safety reasons it was strictly forbidden to tie it down — the machine had to stop instantly when released.

And the noise… that was the worst. Once running, the gun emitted a high‑pitched whistle like a fighter jet nozzle, easily over 100 decibels inside my helmet. Even at depth, the noise could be heard in the barge cabins.

Down in the Gulf of Mexico, the debetonning procedure was simple: one cut at 12 o’clock, one at 5 o’clock, one at 7 o’clock. Separated by 120°, then a circular cut at the 7‑metre mark to drop the three pieces.

Of course, cutting concrete over that length didn’t take minutes — more like two or three hours, with regular stops to avoid hand cramps.

During one of those breaks, Jean‑Pierre asked:

J‑P: “How’s it going Francis? The concrete isn’t too hard?”

Me: “Repeat, didn’t hear.”

J‑P: “Isn’t it too hard?”

Me: “Speak louder, can’t hear well.”

J‑P: “I’M ASKING IF THE CONCRETE ISN’T TOO HARD!”

Me: “Ah no, it’s fine — it’s Belgian concrete.”

J‑P: “Oh? Why?”

Me: “Because Belgian concrete… se frite (crumbles).”

J‑P: “Ah! Ah! Ah! You idiot.”

I kept working. Eventually, the supervisor asked if I wanted Laurent to take over.

Yes — gladly. My ears were ringing like church bells.

Same ordeal for my colleague, who also spent four hours debetoning.

The next two teams would clear the concrete debris, install the inflatable plugs into the two sections, and align the pipes before the welding habitat could be lowered.

Saturday, December 12. Everything is finally ready on the seabed, and it’s our turn to dive and install the habitat.

Since this job requires two divers in the water, Laurent and I head down with a third colleague. During this dive, I’m Diver №1 — which means I’ll spend a long stretch in the water while the other two can rotate.

No problem for me; I feel good in the water.

Once again, we’re on the bottom, and I inform the supervisor that I’m leaving the bell. Eugène notes the departure time in the logbook: 02:22.

While Laurent prepares, my first task is to attach two guide cables to the pipelines. These prevent the welding habitat from rotating during its descent and ensure it arrives exactly in the right position — with very little tolerance.

Once the guides are in place, the crane lifts the massive chamber and, despite the swell, lowers it overboard so it can slide along the guide cables.

Surface: “Divers, attention — the habitat is ready to be lowered. Take shelter under the bell.”

Me: “Understood, heading under the bell. By the way, did you put the plumb line inside the chamber?”

Surface: “Affirmative. The center is clearly marked, and we added a glow stick so you can see it.”

That plumb line is crucial — it’s how I’ll verify the habitat’s exact position.

Surface: “Divers, starting the descent.”

The depth isn’t great, so I can see the underwater welding habitat (UWH) fairly quickly.

Me: “Okay surface, I see the chamber. Lower slowly until I say stop.”

At two metres above the seabed, I stop the descent and return to the pipe. After checking lateral alignment, I gently set the habitat down.

Me: “Okay surface, the habitat is on the bottom. I’m going inside to check longitudinal alignment.”

Surface: “Understood, go inside.”

I pass carefully through the hatch. Inside, the green glow reveals the center marker. I position myself between the two pipe ends and check.

Damn — the UWH is off‑center by about 30 centimetres.

Me: “Surface.”

Surface: “Listening.”

Me: “We’ve got a longitudinal offset of about 30 cm. We need to lift slightly and shift toward twelve o’clock.”

Surface: “Copy, shifting toward twelve.”

Perfect — the movement is enough. I have the chamber set down again.

After a final check, surface tells me I can unhook the slings and send them up.

Lifting the pipelines

Next, we need to raise the ends of both pipeline sections so they can be clamped into the hydraulic jaws.

Laurent and I inflate the series of lift bags installed at intervals along both lines.

Several dozen minutes later, the pipes are lifted and resting against the clamps.

Me: “Surface, Diver 1.”

Surface: “Listening, D1.”

Me: “Pipes are up. I’m going back inside the chamber to secure them. Start the hydraulics so I can close the jaws.”

Surface: “Hydraulics running.”

As I operate the lever, I see the first pipe center itself perfectly. A few minutes later, the second pipe follows.

Me: “Okay surface, stop hydraulics. Both pipes are secure.”

Surface: “Received, Francis.”

Installing the sealing doors

Now we have to install the first of the two doors that will ensure watertightness around the pipes.

They hang somewhere in the middle of the UWH, and using various chain hoists we must slide them carefully around the pipe and against the chamber walls, where they’ll be bolted in place.

Closing the first door already blocks most of the outside light — but Laurent and I are used to working in the dark.

Then comes the most delicate part: carefully unfolding the double rubber skirts that seal around the pipes, and fastening them with metal clamps.

We have to go slowly — the clamps are razor‑sharp and can easily puncture the rubber. If that happened, we’d be in deep trouble: even on deck, installing a skirt takes three men and a lot of swearing. Doing it underwater, with two divers and limited visibility? No thanks.

Better to take our time.

The installation of both doors takes a while, and it’s already time for the diver changeover.

Before that, I slip into the bell for a quick drink — no time wasted.

Then I return to the UWH while the bellman and Diver 2 switch places.

Me: “Surface, D1.”

Surface: “Listening.”

Me: “Okay, I’m back inside the chamber. You can start pressurizing to expel the water.”

Surface: “Understood, pressurizing.”

Slowly, pressurized heliox begins pushing out the thousands of litres of seawater.

My new teammate, the Baron Arnaud D.de.F. , joins me.

Ten minutes later, our heads start emerging from the water — but there’s still too much, so we lie flat on the floor to avoid the weight of our helmets.

The level drops further. Only about a metre remains. We begin removing each other’s gear — except our hot‑water suits.

The habitat is now completely dry, but our lights reveal small leaks around the doors.

No problem — we have the miracle product.

Me: “Surface, D1.”

Surface: “Listening, Francis.”

Me: “The chamber is dry, but there are a few small leaks. We’ll seal them with monkey‑shit before opening the underwater welding intervention module (UWIM) .”

Monkey‑shit — just clay — works like modelling paste and seals perfectly.

Half an hour later, everything is watertight.

Me: “Surface, all sealed. We’re opening the module and installing the equipment.”

Surface: “Okay, tell me when I can switch to chamber comms.”

Behind the module door are all the connections that power the UWH: communications, lighting, ventilation, video control, gas analysis, hydraulics, and of course welding current.

Just connecting and checking everything takes three hours.

Finally — done. Everything is ready for the kings of hyperbaric welding.

Me: “Surface.”

Surface: “Listening.”

Me: “All clear. We’re re‑equipping to exit.”

Surface: “Good work. Call me when you’re out.”

After 10 hours on the bottom, the bell surfaces.

Chaos topside — and a near career-ending misunderstanding

In the chambers, it’s buzzing with activity. The welders take over. They never sleep on the top bunk — they must avoid stiffness before welding.

Another team of welder/pipefitter plus a bellman heads down immediately. Every minute counts — big money is at stake.

I’m exhausted but happy — the dive went smoothly.

I settle into my bunk… But barely ninety minutes later, I hear the bell hydraulics running.

Strange — they’re already coming back up?

Maybe they forgot something.

But outside the saturation system, in the dive control room, things are exploding.

Our beloved Super Intendent, JPB, is furious:

“WHO CUT THE PIPE?”

A glance at the December 11 logbook. Whose name is written? Mine, of course.

“DECOMPRESS HIM IMMEDIATELY — HE’S FIRED!”

Safe in my chamber, I know nothing of this drama.

Luckily, my compatriot Eugène isn’t asleep yet. Even off shift, he senses something is wrong and goes to investigate.

By chance, he enters the control room exactly as the big boss orders my expulsion.

He intervenes immediately:

“Careful, Jean‑Pierre — yes, Francis cut the pipe, but he reported all the problems to the supervisor, who told him to cut at that spot.”

Jean‑Pierre hesitates.

“Then why isn’t it written in the logbook?”

Another look. Strangely, the log seems to have been altered — none of my remarks appear.

“So who screwed up?”

“Well… Patrick.”

Silence.

I only learned about this scene days later, after leaving saturation.

I had a narrow escape. Without my colleague, I might have been blacklisted for life.

Oddly, no sanction was given to the real culprits. But that wasn’t my problem — my reputation remained intact.

Still, the incident forced us to lift the UWH again, install a longer sleeve made in a hurry, and lower the chamber once more.

Two long dives — and over $100,000 lost.

Two days later, the chamber was back on the bottom, ready for the welders.

The two other teams had spent their dives lifting and repositioning the chamber, so now it was our turn to head back down with the welders.

Bad luck for me: since I had been Diver №1 on our previous dive, I automatically became the bellman for the next one — this one.

I hoped I’d have better luck than during my previous stay, when a repair on a weld had forced me to spend nearly 19 hours inside the bell.

This time, I wasn’t going to let boredom get me. I prepared plenty of reading material, crossword puzzles, sandwiches, two or three pieces of fruit, the indispensable pee bottle, and of course the most important item: rope.

Twenty minutes later, the bell checklist was complete. The two welding specialists joined me — time to go.

Because the water was shallow, the transfer to the UWH was very short.

23 metres — the lower bell door opened by equalisation.

Me: “Surface, door open — stop the descent.”

Surface: “Stopped.”

Through the hatch, I could clearly see the habitat’s receptacle a few metres below — the cone we had to lock onto.

Me: “Okay surface, lower the bell gently about two metres until above the cone. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

The bell resumed its slow vertical movement.

Me: “Stop.”

Surface: “Stopped.”

The lower edge of the hatch was now level with the cone.

I spent a few moments analysing the bell’s movement. No way we could bump the chamber — the swell made the bell sway, and the docking had to be done gently, like a spacecraft docking manoeuvre.

There — for a few seconds the motion was minimal. I seized the opportunity.

Me: “Surface, come down slowly.”

Surface: “Coming down.”

Me: “Stop.”

Surface: “Stopped.”

Me: “Good, we’re engaged in the cone. Be ready to lower the last 50 centimetres.”

Surface: “Whenever you want.”

A few more seconds of patience, then:

Me: “Go, go, go!”

Surface: “Touchdown.”

A small bump — the bell stopped moving.

Me: “Surface, we’re seated. Give some slack on the cable and umbilical.”

Surface: “Copy, giving three metres — stopping.”

This manoeuvre reduced the risk of the bell being torn loose by a bad swell.

Inside the bell, I waited another thirty seconds to confirm stability. Perfect — no movement.

I could now slowly pressurise the bell to expel the water from the transfer hatch.

Once done, I installed the four tie‑rods between the bell and the UWH, and the welders could get to work.

Me: “Alright guys, it’s yours. Good luck — and don’t forget to close the chamber door immediately unless you want to drown.”

The transfer into the chamber is the most dangerous moment. If the vessel drifted at that exact instant, even with the tie‑rods, it could rip the bell off — instantly flooding the chamber, with consequences you can imagine.

This had actually happened once before, but fortunately the welders were already inside with the door closed. The bellman, however, had the fright of his life — the bell fell to the seabed and tipped over, flooding the interior. Luckily, everyone survived.

Here, everything went smoothly. I was now alone in my capsule, which suddenly felt much more spacious.

Well, since I’d be here for many hours, what should I start with?

Maybe watch the fish swimming near the external floodlights? They weren’t particularly pretty — I got bored quickly.

Crosswords then.

Sixteen letters, starting with C and ending with S: “The first two were named Charles and John DEANE Damn, that rang a bell — but what?

While I tried to distract myself with the puzzle, inside the habitat the two welders were working noisily.

Apparently the pipefitter was grinding a bevel on one pipe end, while the other was installing the hydraulic pipe‑cutter on the second pipe to cut it to the exact length of the sleeve.

Time passed slowly.

I switched to reading a very “educational” book — a sort of sexual‑education novel describing the exploits of His Serene Highness Prince Malko Linge and his friend Countess Alexandra.

“Ah! Interesting — worth remembering.” “Oh! The bastard.”

But honestly, I wasn’t sure this kind of reading was good for me after two weeks on a barge.

Back to the aquarium.

Me: “Surface.”

Surface: “Listening.”

Me: “Everything going well down there?”

Surface: “Affirmative. They’re positioning the sleeve between the two pipes.”

Me: “Thanks.”

Good — a quarter of the time had already passed.

Maybe a nap?

Obviously, I wasn’t going to curl up on the tiny fold‑down seat. I had something better.

I took out my indispensable rope and started building a hammock between various attachment points inside the bell.

Done. Not very big, but big enough to hold half my body up to my backside. My legs, sorry, no room — they’d hang.

Me, joking: “Surface, you can turn off the light.”

Surface: “And what next!”

Me: “You bastard — no compassion for the poor bellman.”

Of course I wasn’t going to sleep with two guys working in the chamber, but at least I was more comfortable.

Time passed inexorably — midnight, two o’clock, five o’clock. They had been working for nearly 10 hours.

Me: “Surface, where are they now?”

Surface: “Last pass.”

Great — it shouldn’t be long. I started dismantling my hammock.

Indeed, forty‑five minutes later, surface informed me they were done and preparing the X‑ray inspection of the welds.

07:20 — the lower door finally opened and the two welding kings appeared, exhausted.

To avoid radiation from the radioactive source, they had to shelter inside the bell during each shot. Not sure our “balls” didn’t take a hit anyway — the source was only a few metres away.

09:05 — finished. I removed the tie‑rods and closed the inner bell door.

Me: “Surface, you can bring us up.”

Once on deck, the NDT inspector grabbed the films and developed them in his lab.

Suspense.

He returned:

Verdict: all good — no weld defects.

In the chamber, the welders congratulated each other, miming the gesture of pulling the cash‑drawer handle.

They had reason to smile — each successful weld earned them a substantial bonus of several thousand euros.

It may seem excessive, but not everyone can be a hyperbaric welder.

Since they had no more welds to do, Serge, our life support technician, told them to move to the decompression chamber.

Good — we’d have more space again.

In the following days, I did a few more dives for various tasks.

Finally, on December 21, the day of deliverance arrived for Laurent and me. After 19 hours of decompression, we finally saw the sun again.

As always, we looked like zombies — we had lost a lot of red blood cells from breathing a gas mixture with a higher oxygen partial pressure than normal.

Fortunately, we still had a few days to get a bit of a tan on the helideck after our shifts.

December 29 — departure day.

That morning, I showered and groomed myself more than usual — leaving behind the problems of the worksite.

10:00 — helicopter announced, please be ready.

A quick goodbye to the colleagues staying behind and —

“Damn, where’s my travel bag?”

I had left it at the foot of the stairs.

Immediately, I knew where to look.

I looked up — and as expected, saw my bag hanging high above, hooked to the crane.

“Please, Mr. Crane Operator, give me back my luggage!”

Meanwhile, the helicopter had landed.

My bag came down — I ran to grab it.

Ouch — it weighed a ton.

Damn — that joker Philippe had slipped two 15‑kg shackles inside.

I pulled them out quickly and threw them on deck, then sprinted up the stairs to the helideck.

The guys disembarking didn’t look happy — they’d be spending New Year’s Eve on board.

But I knew they’d get used to it again soon enough.

As for me — a brief stop in Ciudad del Carmen, then off to my little Belgium, just in time to spend New Year’s Eve with my family.

Papy One

Retired commercial diver and supervisor. Sharing true stories from my 47 long years in that industry — the good, the bad, and the unforgettable.