Three Weeks on the Rig and the Shore Feels Loud

rotation end. took the helicopter in. apartment smelled like dust. neighbor's tv through the wall felt aggressive. offshore quiet gets into your bones. land is all edges. girlfriend laughed. made coffee. normal is a skill you relearn. helicopter vibration still in my knees hours later. grocery store fluorescent lights felt aggressive after weeks of metal and sea. i bought too much fresh fruit because land abundance is a ritual. roommate texted jokes i answered slowly. re-entry is always half translation half jet lag without the jet. safety briefing at dawn. everyone quiet in the way serious places teach you. the ocean outside did not care about our schedule. competence out here is quiet hands and early sleep. shore life feels loud for three days then normal returns like a tide.

Rotation end. Helicopter in. My apartment smelled like dust. The neighbor's television through the wall felt aggressive.

Offshore quiet gets into your bones. Land is all edges.

My girlfriend laughed and made coffee. Normal is a skill you relearn: small talk, traffic, the luxury of choosing when noise arrives.

North Sea work teaches solitude without romance. Shore work teaches overstimulation without rest. I am always translating between the two.

She asked if I missed her. I said yes. Both things true: I missed her and I missed the silence too.

The story continues in the body after the words stop. Shoulders lower, or they do not. Tomorrow arrives with its own list. I am still here, which is not nothing.

I do not need a moral. I need an honest next step. Sometimes that is rest. Sometimes it is showing up again before you feel ready.

The story continues in the body after the words stop. Shoulders lower, or they do not. Tomorrow arrives with its own list. I am still here, which is not nothing.

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