Chapter 2
two
AIDAN
The last two weeks have been a blur of twelve-hour shifts, endless solitude, and weather that chews you up and spits you out.
The grind’s become second nature over the years, and fatigue hardly even registers anymore.
Just part of the deal. The work’s relentless, but that’s the life I chose.
Right now, I’m counting down the days until I can get the hell off this rig.
I moved closer to my mum recently. She downsized into a smaller house in a quieter town, and since she’s the one who looks after Isla when I’m working out here, it made sense for us to follow. Our new place is only ten minutes from her and thank god for that. I couldn’t do this without her.
It’s getting harder every day, though. Isla’s growing up too fast, and I hate missing it. Every giggle I don’t hear, every scraped knee I don’t patch up—it digs under my skin. The two weeks I’ll be at home coming up is something, at least. Seeing her face again is what keeps me going.
A sharp clang of metal drags me from my thoughts. The wind howls, thick with oil and salt spray. My jacket might as well be tissue paper for all the protection it offers, but I pull it tighter anyway, scowling at the chill.
“Oi, Aidan!” Jack’s voice cuts through the hum of machinery, barely audible. “We’ve got a situation with pump three. Need your eyes on it.”
I nod, glad for the distraction. Jack’s been my closest mate since we started working on the rig together eight years ago.
He usually does a decent job of keeping my mind off things, but as I make my way across the slick deck, my mind wanders back to Isla.
Has she grown taller in the couple weeks I’ve been gone?
Will she still want to play our silly make-believe games, or is she starting to outgrow them?
The pump’s usual hum is off, replaced by a faint stutter in its rhythm that tugs me back to the deck.
I crouch low, hands already moving to check the seals and pressure gauges.
The salt in the air stings my eyes, forcing me to squint at the readouts.
The numbers blur for a moment, but I focus, trying to make sense of them. Something’s definitely off.
“Partial blockage,” I shout over the noise. “Must be debris in the intake. We’ll need to shut it down and flush it out.”
Jack gives me a quick nod, already reaching for his radio to call in the maintenance crew. While we wait, I lean against the railing, my eyes scanning the endless stretch of gray sea. The waves are choppy today, rougher than usual. It’s a brutal reminder of just how small we are out here.
The crew arrives, and we get to work. It’s a messy job, but it keeps my hands busy, my mind occupied. As we’re elbow-deep in grease and saltwater, Jack breaks the silence.
“So, how’s the wee lass of yours doing?” he asks, his voice muffled by the noise.
I can’t help but smile, even as I fight with a stubborn bolt. “Growing like a weed. She’ll be starting school soon.”
Jack whistles low. “Time flies, aye? Seems like just yesterday she was a newborn.”
The reminder sends a pang through my chest. I’ve missed so much already. “Aye,” I grumble, “it does.”
“Thanks for the assist,” Jack says, clapping me on the shoulder. “You heading to the mess after this?”
I shake my head. “Nah. Turning in early. Got a chopper to catch in the morning.”
“Right. Back to the real world,” he says with a grin before heading off.
I don’t linger. The rig’s steel corridors are quieter this late in the shift, but the thrum of machinery never really fades. Back in my cabin, I strip off my gear, tossing them in a heap. I sit on the edge of the bunk, letting out a long breath.
The compact space feels even smaller tonight, almost suffocating after two weeks out here. The North Sea doesn’t offer much comfort. Just cold, noise, and harsh work. It’s a tough routine, but at least it’s predictable. The world back home? That’s a different beast altogether.
I glance at the duffel bag in the corner, already half packed.
Two weeks off isn’t a holiday. It’s a list of things that need doing.
House repairs. Bills to sort. My mum’s got a few updates on Isla for me, no doubt.
She’s great, from what I hear. Happy. Stubborn as hell, though I’ll admit, she gets that from me.
The updates never come easy, though. They’re reminders that while I’m away, she’s out there growing up without me, and every time I come home, it feels like I have to earn my way back into her world.
Prove I’m more than the man who passes through with apologies.
She’s got her own opinions, her own routines.
By the time we find our rhythm again, it’s usually time for me to leave.
I can’t help wondering if one day she’ll stop letting me back in at all.
For now, there’s no use stewing on it. Tomorrow, the chopper’s my ticket off this floating hunk of steel. I’ll have two weeks back onshore, which isn’t exactly rest, but it’s a change of scenery. That’s good enough for now.