#17 - King for a Month

King for a Month

The crazy, weird and utterly unbelievable life of the chief of a Big Oil refinery in some gawdawful place you would never choose to go

Chapter 1 - You Have Arrived

I did alternating 28 day tours in a Big Oil refinery somewhere in the world you would never normally choose to be.  Where exactly? It doesn't really matter, the rebels lurking outside the compound walls were the same everywhere. Always trying to decide whether to extort the multi-national corporation through commerce or kidnap it's rich white execs so they can be ransomed back.  And sometimes working both angles.

I had done plenty of international travel both with work and for pleasure. Europe was my favorite. Still is.  But giant, complex, poisonous refineries are not located near quaint European towns.  And the biggest ones, the one I worked at, were often built as far away from humans as practical. When you accidentally spill poisonous gas from a major installation you want the H2S (Hydrogen Sulfide?) to kill as few people as possible. So I had to venture to some pretty strange, remote and hostile places to be king.

The first time I arrived at one of these remote refineries I was flown in by private plane.  It was definitely the weirdest and most frightening experience of my life.  A twin engine prop plane that just did the hop from the international airport to the refinery.   A dedicated flight that wouldn't surprise me if the company owned the plane.  And the pilot.  But that was after being separated from the masses upon arrival at the airport by a contingent of armed guards.  Hired locals tasked with getting us from the international airport terminal to the company-owned hotel nearby without any one of the privileged, mostly white, senior execs getting kidnapped or shot along the way.  You would be surprised what a Corporate Oil Company will pay to retrieve their captured manager.  The cost is all covered by insurance of course, but the stigma of losing an exec in a situation like that makes future hiring much more difficult.

On this occasion it was a full flight and I was the last one on so I got seated in the "extra" seat.  We didn't have a co-pilot as it turned out so end up next to the pilot wearing the headset that allowed me to listen to the ATC and communicate.  This is definitely the sort of thing I like, so I was thinking "This is cool."

We take off and I'm enough of a geek that I start tracking our progress on a Google  map - Satellite mode.  But right away I see us travelling away from the refinery compound.  I wait but our course doesn't change.  After a while I ask the pilot "Where are we going?  Isn't the refinery that way?"  I ask.

"Yeah" he says.  "But we have to approach from this direction" motioning on the map out on the ocean. 

I watch as we loop waaaaay out and around over the water taking the most indirect route possible from the airport to our destination.  Once out over the water we bank left and are finally headed directly into our destination.  We fly low over countless oil platforms flaring off natural gas, like a post-apocalyptic scene from a Blade Runner movie. 

"Okay" I was thinking.  I guess there is a reason for this.  Then the pilot looks over to me and points off ahead to my right, into dense jungle. 

"The local Warlord controls all that area.  And that area over there too"  He points to the left.  Basically on both sides of where we were headed. 

"Oh..."

"Did you say 'Warlord'?" 

"Yeah"  he says.  "We buy our toilet paper from him.  And a bunch of other stuff.  Anything we might need really, we can get from his crew.  We kind of have to buy from his crew.  His people basically.  It's an arrangement that works" He says, bobbing his head up and down.  "Until we get in dispute, then things can get a little weird.  But right now things are good."

I'm not sure what is going through my brain at this point.  He definitely said Warlord.  More than once.  What did he mean by "His crew"?  And more importantly, where the hell was I going?  As we got closer I could see the walls of the compound come into view.  Wow, those are high walls.  With razor wire across top.  And is that a strip of the same running along the wall halfway up?  What is that, double protection?  I decide not to ask. 

We land.  But not heading straight into a runway from far out.  I couldn't even see the runway on the heading we were on.  Where the hell are we supposed to land?  I figured it would become clear as we got closer.  It didn't.  The pilot looked over at me and saw the concern on my face.  "We land over there" he says with a wide swooping hook motion of his right hand.  That did not help my anxiety at this stage.  "You can't even see the runway" I'm thinking.  Oh, great.  I look around for something to hold on to,

We land.  Wide swooping turn to the right and drop out of the sky like Tom Cruise is directing the action.  Okay, I've actually experienced worse on a commercial flight so this pilot immediately leaps in my respect. "Thank you" I stutter as I fall awkwardly out of the co-pilot's seat looking 100% like I had never done that before.  And feeling far more concerned about where I had just landed than what people were thinking. 

“You have arrived” our pilot says with the biggest shit-eating grin I have ever seen.

Chapter 2 - Status

It's all a bit awkward at first. Each person not quite sure who the others are, and importantly what their status is.  Like any community of people these facilities naturally develop hierarchy. It can be as simple as those with certain status have access to specific areas of the plant where others do not.  Or enjoy privileges such as better food, accommodation and transport.  Regardless, it becomes clear who has status and who doesn't often by the way you arrive at the facility. My ride in to one particularly remote location demonstrated that quite clesrly.  While the plebs were loaded onto a train for a 6 hour journey into this one location, I flew across with other execs in just 45 min via private plane.

So when the plane ride from hell discourages its passengers onto the tarmac in the middle of this hostile jungle we all essentially have the same status at this point.  We are immediately directed into a nearby building for the standard safety briefing. These are normal in every facility and everyone had been through it before. This alarm means fire; this other nastier sounding alarm means gas leak (they don't say "poisonous gas leak" but they don't have to). But this time we get more. This unique blaring alarm, continues our host, means we have an armed insurgency.

"What did he just say?" I turn to the person beside me.

"Shhh!" I'm waved off by someone with an equally concerned look on their face trying to measure the gravity of what we are being told.

"Go immediately to one of these rooms marked in yellow."  They are located around the compound in locations designed to reduce the likelihood of bullets penetrating. This was followed by a discussion about the path of bullets, how to minimize casualties and ended with the specific instructions to "Lie face down and Do Not Lift Your Head.  At all. Ever. Or, until someone comes in and gives you the all clear."

If that briefing was supposed to scare the hell out of us, it did.

Then, as we leave the briefing room the person in charge of the whole refinery comes out to greet us. This rotation's King for a Month. Everyone can tell this person has status.  People noticeably stiffen as he arrives surrounded by a contingent of armed security.  But not me. I know this guy from years back and so he strides across the open plaza that is the main common area of the compound and comes right to me.

"Daaaave! How're you doing? It's been too long..." Backslaps and handshakes then he steers me off to one side, peeling me away from the group and we walk off with my old friend telling me "I've got something to show you."

I look back over my shoulder and see the contingent of security, briefing personnel and new arrivals left gawking at us with befuddled looks on their faces. It was clear some formal introduction process was about to take place where everyone's "status" would be established. Mine was pretty clear at this point and I could see the locals looking at me differently.

Edward takes me back to his office.  More of bunker really, deep inside the facility protected by multiple layers of security from people to large steel doors.  Once inside he pulls out a rare bottle of single malt whiskey, something he knows I like because we bonded over plenty of bottles in the past but particularly when we worked together in Scotland early in our careers.  It is unopened of course and remains so because even though he is King for a Month, no alcohol is permitted while you are in that role. A painful sacrifice but something we tend to make up for during the 28 days when we are not King for a Month. 

#15 - Infinite Range at 15 MPH and Silent Elegance at 6

Sailboats have mythical status as the first choice of a lottery winner to sail off into the sunset because it is a grand act but also because that millionaire has nowhere else to be. Getting places is what humans love to do - or being places, not necessarily getting there. On a sailboat with a top speed of 7 or 8 mph you're not getting anywhere fast so you have to tell yourself the journey is the point not the destination. But what if the destination really is the objective? 

Sailors love to poke fun at the powerboats that charge up to a spectacular and remote location like Chatterbox Falls or even Desolation Sound using fuel measured by weight in some cases. "How much fuel did you go through getting up here?" a sailboater said once in just such a location. 

"About 3 hours" came the response. "How about you? Probably 3 days.  Or longer. I had breakfast at home this morning and we were here by lunchtime."  A flash of realization is visible across the sailors' faces before they wave us off with "The journey's the point, not the destination." Yeah, except work often requires us to be in cities.  With the right vessel, one could spend a long weekend somewhere quite remote with one day to travel up, 2 days at leisure and a day returning home. Now, wouldn't that be fabulous. 

The only other constraint beyond time is fuel.  Every boat has a max range before refueling. And at what cost? Not to mention the regular maintenance of an important motor you don't want quitting in the middle of a trip. 

With a Hydrofoil it could be done riding above the waves in elegant smooth silence.  And if it is an electric Hydrofoil fueled by the power from onboard solar panels, the possibility of a boat with infinite range becomes possible. 

Imagine a boat you can stay on for a weekend that doesn't require you to go from outpost to outpost for fuel but can move across the water more quickly and efficiently than a sailboat, running on electric power.  Quiet, and because it also rides on hydrofoils, smooth as if it were effortless. Gliding above the waves and chop on a hydrofoil wing designed to get the boat out of the water at a very low speed would mark a revolution in marine transport. And to be able to maintain that lift using no more power than what the onboard solar panels are able to gather from surfaces would mean infinite range. 

With that on my mid, a friend told me about a boat called the Greenline. A so-called trawler, so it's whole hull is in the water at all times, it has both a diesel main engine and an electric motor fueled in part by solar panels on the roof that can move the boat at 6 knots just on the energy gathered from the solar panels alone. So the boat effectively has infinite range.  It can go forever as long as the sun shines (and good solar panels pull plenty of power on a cloudy day as well). A great idea but now imagine that speed is more like 12 knots or more without draining the battery. At that speed, you could truly cover distance over water but to do that the boat must be up on a hydrofoil. 

https://images.app.goo.gl/s7oeomA1Cki4nHHE8 

A long list of technical issues combat the practicality of running a hydrofoil boat over long distances, especially one driven by electric propulsion. The key is to have enough solar panel area and a large enough battery pack to store energy while underway or at anchor so your range exceeds your trip. Once the boat is up on its hydrofoil wings the energy required to keep it there is minimal.  And with such a reduction in friction the result is a smooth, quiet, electric foil boat that rides above the chop and waves in an elegant, effortless glide. With electric motors the mechanical maintenance is dramatically reduced (because it has substantially fewer moving parts than any gas or diesel motor) and infinite range at a low but still practical speed.

The ultimate design of this boat will be one with a layout inside like any other 33 foot motor yacht or sailboat, with a stateroom or V-Berth up front and other bunks aft to comfortably sleep 4 adults or a slightly larger family with kids.  It would also have a galley and shower/toilet and table to eat at just as one would find on any yacht and a cruising speed with a net-zero energy use of 12 knots/hour. Now that can get you somewhere.

In many ways this will be the Tesla Model S of weekend yachts.

As I searched for others who may have tackled and solved the many issues that arise from getting a boat up on a foil and doing so with electric power, I came across a good example of both style and great design in the Foiler pictured below.  But this boat is designed as a million dollar tender (one million Euro actually) for a super yacht not the weekend getaway craft I have in mind. The brilliant development here is the shape and position of the foils. Hinged on the underside of the hull these foils can fold up and out of the way brilliantly when the boat has its hull in the water and their folded position is perfect for docking or even putting the boat on a trailer.  

https://images.app.goo.gl/2JoJ8V7WF2AXL4Sd6 

A key issue with hydrofoils is how the foil itself is positioned in the water.  If it is fully submerged the foil likely requires stabilizing software and constant adjustment.  If the foil breaks the surface of the water at an angle it becomes naturally stable because the foils on each side automatically lift and rolls the boat back toward the center.  When both sides do this it becomes a very stable foil with no stabilizing software or adjustment required because when the boat rolls to one side that foil has more of its wing into the water producing more lift (and more drag) while the foil on the other side does the opposite producing less lift as more of it comes out of the water.  This naturally rolls the boat into its center-most and stable position.

The example of the Foiler (pictured) also uses two big gasoline-powered BMW engines for thrust and uses the electric motors for only a short time mostly because the boat is optimized for speed rather than range.  With a few modifications, this new design could become “the slowest hydrofoil ever made.” Specifically designed to rise up and maintain a foil at the lowest speed possible (9 knots?) and to cruise at a reasonable 12 - 15 knots/hour  To do this the foil wings will have to be large and thereby create massive drag. Top speed may only be 20 or 25 knots rather than the theoretical 52 knot maximum speed for a foil but 10 - 15 knots is perfect for cruising. And with every available surface covered in solar panels to gather the sun’s energy the idea will be to maintain a gentle cruising speed up on the foils that uses no more energy than what is collected from the sun.  That way the boat will have infinite range at a reasonable speed on a sunny day.  

https://images.app.goo.gl/b25c9PwZUCUca1Aj8 

When Elon Musk was asked about the Model S sedan and why he designed it the way he did, his response was that he wanted a stylish car that would take his whole family (himself, his wife and three kids).  The Model S of Boats has similar goals - to take a family out on the water for a weekend in style and without using anything other than the power of the sun not unlike the way a sailing yacht is capable of doing, but in this case you are not constrained by a max 6 knots under motoring or tacking along a less direct route under sail.  

A long roof covering most of the length of the boat as well as other surfaces designed to house additional solar panels that gather the maximum power possible from the sun.  With batteries positioned at the central section of the boat because of their weight and a rack above the roof used to put radio antennae, GPS and radar not to mention potentially a vertical wind turbine to gather more energy.  

Prudence demands backup systems as any sailor would argue so a diesel generator onboard would be a likely if not necessary addition, but the system would be a serial hybrid where the fuel motor would not drive the boat directly rather it would generate power for the battery pack to run systems on the boat and to extend range.  This further reduces maintenance and points of failure by eliminating the mechanical extensions to a drive system from gears and a transmission to extra drive shafts or other elements.

The question I have yet to answer is how big a foil is required to get this 30 - 33 foot boat up out of the water at a low speed and how much energy is needed not only to launch it but also to maintain a foil.  Again, slow being the target not high speed. Once up on a foil the amount of energy required to keep the boat there is minimal so coming in and out of the water constantly will be one of the most taxing activities on the battery pack so allowing the boat to maintain a very slow cruising speed will be essential and ultimately quite beneficial.  


Blake Corbet is not famous but his uncle climbed Everest and has the most wicked ski run in the world named after him, his cousin rowed in the 1988 Olympics in Seoul, and his Grandfather brought the first neon sign to Vancouver a hundred years ago so he is happily anonymous but feeling in good company.

#16 - Is There a Parent Here?

Is There a Parent Here? 

What I did in grade 12 but could never imagine allowing my kids to do today

Early in my life as a parent a buddy told me a story about parenting his kids that left an interesting impression on one of his neighbours. And me.  He was a little ahead of us as far as kids were concerned, and had two boys at the top of the order while we just had an infant at the time. We started with a girl.  Start with girls - trust me. They learn faster, are more verbal at an earlier age and actually have a sense of responsibility. Boys are far more physical in the way the learn and do everything.  Parents of boys know the emergency room staff on a first name basis. Parents of girls don't even know where the hospital is.  

So there is my buddy, father of two boys at the time, out back cutting the grass while two of his boys were playing somewhere around the house.  That is your first clue here - a Mother would know where the kids are at all times. A Dad is typically comfortable with a general idea that they are on the property. Big mistake. At some point during the grass cutting exercise on this summer day, a neighbour comes bursting through the back door of the house with an exasperated look on their face. "Is there a parent here?!" 

"Uh, me?" he responds with a little too much question in the answer. 

"You need to restrain your boys!  Immediately." Says the neighbour. 

Restrain?  Thinking the boys have done something unthinkable like shower the neighbour's car in gravel or waterbomb their cat, the Dad becomes engaged in the situation. "What happened?" he is able to stammer. 

"Did you allow them to turn the Hydro cable into a zipline?"

The Dad leads the neighbour back through the house not sure if that faint tinge of pride for their ingenuity will be overcome by a visit from child services.  "Thank you for all your help, I'll take it from here," he says as he dispatches the neighbour and starts looking for the boys. 

It turns out the power line into the house (called a Hydro cable in Western Canada because the power comes from Hydroelectric dams) could be reached by standing on the railing around the front porch.  It seemed like a perfect zipline out onto the front grass. The real shocker is that no one was electrocuted during the multiple rides these two had taken. 

I would love to say this happened in the '70's but it was in fact a 21st century event, not what we have come to expect from the Helicopter Parents of the' 90's and beyond. Today, it seems, we are far more protective of our children. It may be because so many more things today threaten to put our kids in danger that we restrict their freedom out of prudence. Cars move faster, drivers are less often drunk but more often distracted, and because we hear about so many terrible misfortunes to befall others that we become much more protective.  For example, as our eldest finished highschool I reminisced about my grade 12 year and realized I would be determinedly opposed as a parent to any one of our kids going on a 10 day Spring Break road trip 1,000 miles away. Yet that is exactly what I did in Grade 12. 

March, 1985

Six of us left town in two cars with no cell phones, credit cards or means other than some of our own cash.  No reservations, no real itinerary other than be back before school starts Monday after Spring Break (was it 10 days or 2 weeks?). Ian measured the distance: 1,024 miles which meant we could make it down to LA in one 24 hour stretch by rotating drivers.  I might have suggested that last bit, but with no opposition that's exactly what we did. 

We did have one point of contact. Rob had an aunt and uncle working for a rich woman living in Beverly Hills. The couple was there for the kids in-between nannies, ensuring the cars were full of gas, the pool guy came on time and otherwise took care of a variety of other things that needed to be done. On staff and paid with time off once in a while we visited them on the way through LA. Turns out it was the very house owned by Joan Crawford and featured in the book “Mommy Dearest” which I had read some years before.

Trolling around West LA we spent a night in Westwood where the Frat houses for UCLA were situated.  Late entry to a frat party when you're 17, and quite obviously not going to any university, was a challenge but after declaring on the doorstep that we're Canadian and our beer is stronger than Amerian beer got us delivered immediately to the nearest beer pong table to prove it.  From there it was easy, we were inside, and in our case we had Ross. Ross likes beer but so do all of us. What Ross can do is open his throat in such a way that an entire beer can be poured into his stomach as if it were being poured into the kitchen sink. No resistance whatsoever.  The only way to beat him in a drinking contest is if you can do the same. If not, it's over before it begins. And with that talent plus a win at the table, the rest of us were released to roam this shockingly large house. Nearly every room contained a bar of some sort whether it was a keg or an actual bartender mixing drinks.  Stepping outside upstairs we discover a pool with the Fraternity’s letters tiled into the bottom. Upstairs because the house is on a hill and in that way connected to other houses next door and behind.  

We drove home that night with our two designated drivers, one of whom was Alastair partly because he won a hot sauce eating contest at the hotel earlier that evening and he already felt so sick he wasn't interested in alcohol.  As we approach our hotel room in Santa Monica, waiting at a red light, some guy pulls up beside us and with his window open says "Hey, does anyone want to buy any pot, heroin or machine guns?". I look over at Al in the driver's seat and ask him "Did that just happen?". He nods slowly. 

On another night heading south of LA we found ourselves at some crazy house party in Laguna Beach at a house up on the hill overlooking the entire beach.  Not a mansion or anything too palatial but a modest house with a pool and a spectacular view looking West. I remember walking through the house late in the party with only a few people left seeing beer cans and liquor bottles on every surface as well as the floor, around the pool, in the pool, everywhere. "Who lives here?" I was asking myself as the Popo pulled up. Blue and red lights mean its time to leave… Maybe a little past time to leave so we should hurry. 

Mexico 

All that and more was just LA. We had yet to go south, not really with any destination in mind, just south. We discover that a State Beach is a perfect place to camp.  Cheap on a per night basis and even cheaper if you arrive late and leave before the ranger comes around to check for payment the next day. South of LA is San Onofre State Beach. Sandwiched between the I-5 freeway and a nuclear reactor this place is definitely a one-night stand. As we pull in we can see this location has only a narrow strip of ground for campsites before the geography drops off to the beaches below, one of which is great for surfing and the other a full-on nudist beach. It’s evening and we find a group of surfers at the far end of the campsite perfectly set up with a fire, chairs and cold beer so we just roll on in. "Hey, we're from Canada, who are you guys?" or something like that. It never took much. 

As we hang out with this group of surfers we hear they have been coming to this location for more than 10 years. Something about the surf break and the lack of crowds. I ask one of them about the odd helicopter we see buzz by overhead. "Oh, that's border control" he says, expecting me to understand. The blank stare on my face convinces him to give up a little more. "The final border check for illegal migrants coming up from Mexico is just south of us on I-5 so the people get dropped off down there and they walk along the beach before getting back into their ride after the border check." 

"Oh" was all I managed. Thinking about it I ask "Why don't they walk on the other side of the highway where they can't be seen so easily along the beach?" I asked. 

"The military base is on the other side. They definitely don't want to be over there" he says. 

Well, I can't argue with that but why are there three helicopters now, and why are they circling overhead? Tighter circles and lower altitude we now find the helicopters are coming down on top of us, blowing the sand and grass around.  Before the surfer Dude can provide any further explanation three white vans pull up and park right beside the surfers’ campsite. Right in front of us. Then BLAM, the helicopters’ searchlights come on and 30 or 40 people are marched out of the bushes with their hands on their heads.  They are loaded into the vans and taken away. The helicopters disappear and we are left looking at each other dumbfounded. The surfers all tell us “We have been coming here for 20 years and have never seen anything like this (I thought they said 10 years before…).” Oh well, just chalk that up as one more freaky happening on this Spring Break adventure.  Let’s go to Mexico next.

Anyone from Mexico will tell you Tijuana is NOT Mexico.  But we are now on a mission to say we went to Mexico so don’t let the facts get in the way of a good story.  

Still maintaining a shred of caution, we park on the US side of the border and walk across.  Immediately it is like another world. The same dust and heat near the ocean but the nicely paved roads, sidewalks with curbs and organized power lines leading to each property are gone.  This place looks like a teenager is in charge, refusing to clean, tidy or fix anything. I buy a taco from a street vendor and get looks from the rest of the crew, all expecting me to get food poisoning.  We find a liquor store because adding alcohol to the situation seemed like a good idea at the time. And since none of us are of age in either Canada or the USA, going into a liquor store and buying cold beer without being questioned was a novelty. 

So there we are, walking down a main street in Tijuana drinking beer and just waiting for something to happen next.  It didn’t take long. Before anyone has consumed half a beer a motorcycle cop pulls over to the curb with a menacing look in his eye.  Anyone who saw the TV show Chips in the 1980’s would recognize this guy as the spitting image of Eric Estrada - beige uniform, aviator sunglasses, golden helmet and black leather boots up to his knees all astride a full-on Harley Davidson Police bike.  He proceeds to tell us drinking in public is illegal in Mexico. “What? Nobody told us!” we explain in the most pathetic way possible.  

“You will spend 3 days in jail” he says after carefully explaining the gravity of our transgression.  “Or, you pay the fine.”

“The fine?  The fine! How much is the fine?” we all look at him with anticipation.

At this moment, he literally steps back and looks us up and down.  Sizing us up as if a director in a low budget movie said “I want you to really sell it.”  

“Fifty US dollars.  Each.” That’s a lot of money.  Do we even have that much? Some of the guys turn away trying to think about the choice they have been given - a Tijuana jail or all of the money left in their pockets.  I immediately start to haggle with him, and before we know it we are down to twenty bucks each and we are ready to get out of there. Agreed on the amount we all reach for our wallets.  “Not here!” he says with great concern. “In the squad car” as he motions to the police car that pulled up during the negotiations just for support. Inside is a very round, sweaty Mexican police officer smiling as we each pass him a $20 bill through the passenger window.  Like a lunch line, the six of us file past the squad car and make our payment then I turn back to Eric Estrada who is waiting for us on the sidewalk. “Can we get a photo?” I ask…

Whistlerborn is not famous but his uncle climbed Everest and has the most wicked ski run in the world named after him, his cousin rowed in the 1988 Olympics in Seoul, and his Grandfather brought the first neon sign to Vancouver a hundred years ago so he is happily anonymous but feeling in good company.