My name is Captain Peter Jensen, though most folks just call me Jensen. For forty years, I’ve called the sea my home. Now, as I prepare to hang up my captain’s hat and step back onto solid ground for good, I feel it’s my duty to leave something behind.
Not for my crew—no, most of them have their sea legs by now—but for the rookies who will follow. Rig 32 is no place for the foolhardy or the unprepared, and if my stories can keep just one greenhorn from making a fatal mistake, then I’ll consider this guide worth writing. I wasn’t always a man of the sea.
Once, long ago, I thought my future lay in a much quieter life. My father was a carpenter, a man who worked with his hands and built things that lasted. I inherited his knack for crafting, but I wasn’t interested in making chairs or fixing roofs.
I wanted something bigger, something wilder. The sea called to me, as it does to certain people, and once I answered, I never looked back. I’m not a complicated man.
I like my work steady, my coffee strong, and my boots broken in. I’ve got no use for neckties or crowded offices with buzzing lights. I’ve always preferred the open air, the sound of waves against steel, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing I’m part of something bigger than myself.
Running an oil rig isn’t glamorous work, but it’s honest. It requires discipline, grit, and a willingness to face whatever the ocean decides to throw your way. And believe me, she has her moods.
I’ve spent most of my life out here, watching the sun rise and fall over endless water. The routines of the rig suit me. There’s comfort in the predictability of a shift, the rhythm of maintenance checks, and the hum of machinery.
But there’s a flip side to it, too. The isolation can wear on a man, and the quiet can turn heavy. You’ve got to learn how to carry it without letting it crush you.
Not everyone can. Now, about Rig 32. It’s a colossal thing, a metal island in the middle of nowhere.
Officially, we’re in the South Sea, though our exact location changes with the currents and the company’s orders. The rig has seen its share of storms, and she’s weathered them all. She’s built for it.
The men and women who work here? Well, some of them are, too. Others aren’t.
The crew changes often. Some last a few months, others a few weeks. The turnover is high, but I suppose that’s to be expected.
Life out here isn’t for everyone. The work is grueling, the weather unpredictable, and the ocean—she’s as beautiful as she is unforgiving. You’d do well to remember that.
When you arrive, you’ll be given a silver pin. It’s small, round, and engraved with what looks like a sea monster. You’re to wear it at all times, no exceptions.
Most rookies don’t think much of it. They figure it’s some kind of company tradition or a way to identify workers in an emergency. That’s partly true, but there’s more to it than that.
You’ll understand soon enough. The rig operates under strange circumstances. For one, none of us knows exactly who owns it.
Sure, there’s a name on the paycheck, but it’s generic—a holding company, nothing traceable. Before you start, you’ll sign a non-disclosure agreement. Standard stuff, but the rules that follow?
They’re not written down. You’ll hear them from the veterans, piece by piece, until they become second nature. That’s why I’m writing this guide—to fill in the gaps and tell you the things that don’t make it into the safety manuals.
This is not a place for careless mistakes. People have been lost out here, some to the waves, others to. .
. well, things we don’t talk about. There are forces at work in the South Sea that defy logic and reason.
I’ve seen things I can’t explain, and I’ve heard stories from men I trust that would make your hair stand on end. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Before I dive into all that, let me start slow.
You’re new here, after all. Take it one step at a time, and maybe—just maybe—you’ll find your footing. Life on the rig is hard, but it’s honest work.
There’s something gratifying about it, though most people would never understand. Out here, you live by routine. You wake up at the same time every day, put on your gear, and head out to do your tasks.
Some days, you’re in the engine room checking gauges and making sure nothing’s about to explode. Other days, you’re up top, tightening bolts or clearing debris off the deck. It’s physical, demanding work, and by the end of the day, your muscles are sore and your clothes smell like salt and oil.
But there’s a kind of satisfaction in it that you don’t get anywhere else. The food helps too. I’ve worked rigs where the cafeteria serves gray slop that could pass for dog food, but not here.
On Rig 32, the meals are hot, and the coffee actually tastes good. The beans come from Colombia—I don’t know who’s paying for that kind of luxury, but I’m not about to complain. Every morning, there’s bacon.
Crispy, greasy, the kind that makes your mouth water before you’ve even gotten in line. Fridays are pizza nights, and they don’t skimp on the toppings either. It’s the little things like that that keep morale up.
Out here, you learn to appreciate the little things. The sunsets are another gift. No matter how rough the day’s been, when the sun dips below the horizon and paints the sky with streaks of orange and pink, you can’t help but stop and watch.
The sea turns into a shimmering sheet of gold, and for a moment, the rig doesn’t feel so cold and industrial. It feels. .
. alive. Now, the rig itself is noisy.
It’s a constant hum of machinery, the clanging of metal against metal, and the occasional burst of steam. At first, it can drive you crazy, especially when you’re trying to sleep. Most of us wear earplugs to block it out, but after a while, you get used to it.
The noise becomes part of the background, like the ticking of a clock or the buzz of a refrigerator. You stop noticing it until it’s gone. But you didn’t come here to read about bacon or sunsets, did you?
You’re here for the stories, and I’ve got plenty of them. Some you might not believe. Hell, if I hadn’t seen them with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe them either.
But they’re important, and if you’re smart, you’ll remember them. Out here, the ocean doesn’t just take; she tests you. And sometimes, she shows you things you’d rather not see.
Let’s start small. The fish. Every once in a while, a fish will wash up onto the rig deck.
At first glance, they don’t look like anything special. Black scales, sleek bodies, the kind of fish you’d see in any fishing port. But you need to leave them alone.
Don’t touch them, and don’t try to keep them as a trophy. If you catch one in your nets, throw it back into the water as soon as you can. I can’t stress this enough.
You see, these fish aren’t normal. Not even close. They look fine on the outside, but if you’re curious—or stupid—enough to open their mouths, you’ll see something that’ll stick with you forever.
Teeth. Not sharp, jagged teeth like a shark or piranha. No, these fish have human teeth.
Straight, a little yellow, but undeniably human. I’ve seen plenty of strange things in my time, but there’s something about those teeth that makes my skin crawl. One rookie decided to keep one once.
He thought it was funny. “Look at this! ” he said, holding it up like it was a prize.
We told him to throw it back, but he just laughed. Later that night, we heard him screaming. When we found him, he was curled up in the corner of his bunk, muttering nonsense and clutching his arm like it was on fire.
He didn’t stay long after that. No one ever does. Then there are the salt statues.
You’ll only see them after a storm. I’m not talking about a little rain shower—I mean the kind of storm where the waves are so high, they slam against the rig like they’re trying to pull it under. On nights like that, everyone stays inside.
You don’t step out onto the deck unless you’ve got a death wish. The wind howls, the rain pounds, and the whole rig shudders under the force of it. It’s a reminder of how small we are out here, just a speck of metal in the vast, angry ocean.
But when the storm passes and the sea calms down, that’s when you’ll see them. The salt statues. They’re not always in the same place, but they’re always there.
Figures made entirely of salt, standing on the deck like they’ve been carved by the waves themselves. At first, you might think it’s just a trick of the light, or maybe some kind of erosion. But then you’ll notice the details.
Arms, legs, torsos, and faces. Human faces. It’s the faces that get to you.
They’re so detailed, down to the creases in the skin and the wrinkles around the eyes. But it’s the mouths that really stick with you. They’re always open, like they’re screaming.
Some of the statues have their hands outstretched, like they’re reaching for something—or someone. It’s like they’re frozen in their final moments, whatever those moments were. We don’t touch them.
We don’t talk about them. By midday, they’re usually gone, dissolved back into the sea or blown away by the wind. But they always come back, after the next storm or the one after that.
I’ve asked myself a hundred times where they come from, and I’ve never found an answer. Maybe it’s better that way. So, if you’re out on the deck one morning after a storm and you see one of them, don’t go poking around.
Take it as a warning, a reminder of what the ocean is capable of. She gives, she takes, and sometimes, she leaves you things you’d rather not think about. That’s enough for now.
There’s plenty more to tell, but you’ll need time to let this sink in. Life on the rig might seem routine at first, but it doesn’t take long for the strange and the unexplainable to find you. And when it does, you’d better be ready.
The ocean is full of strange things, some things I’ll never understand. I don’t have answers for all of it—hell, most of it—but I’ve seen enough to know this: the less you poke at it, the safer you’ll be. I’m writing this down because the rookies need to know.
You’re coming to a place where the rules of the world don’t always seem to apply. The sea is as old as time, and there’s more to it than we could ever hope to grasp. There are nights out here when the water looks like liquid pitch.
No light reaches it, and it stretches out like a vast, endless pool of oil. But then, just when you think it couldn’t get darker, you’ll see something that catches your eye: stars. Tiny pinpricks of light reflected off the surface, shimmering like a second sky.
It’s beautiful, sure, but it doesn’t make sense. When you’re far from shore with nothing but the rig’s lights to break the darkness, you learn to question beauty like that. One of the scariest nights of my life happened when I was still new to the rig.
It was forty years ago, back when I was green, eager, and maybe a little too bold for my own good. I’d just finished a shift and decided to head up to the observation deck for a smoke. It was a quiet night, or so I thought.
The air was heavy with the promise of a storm, and the clouds overhead were thick enough to block out every last trace of moonlight or stars. I leaned against the railing, lit my cigarette, and took a long drag. The ocean was as black as I’d ever seen it, but after a while, I noticed something odd.
There were tiny dots of light scattered across the water below me. At first, I thought they were reflections from the rig’s lights, but that didn’t add up. They didn’t move with the waves like reflections do.
They stayed still, fixed in place, like stars pinned to a black canvas. I stared at them, mesmerized, until a terrible thought hit me. The sky above me was completely covered in storm clouds.
There weren’t any stars to reflect. That was when I realized they weren’t stars at all. They were eyes.
Dozens of them, maybe more, all staring up at me from the water. My stomach dropped, and my cigarette slipped from my fingers. I don’t remember much after that, just the sound of my own boots pounding against the metal as I ran back inside.
It took me months to step back out onto the deck after dark. Even now, all these years later, I avoid looking at the water too much. You never know what’s staring back.
That wasn’t the last strange thing I’ve seen out here. Far from it. The ocean has a way of showing you things that stick with you, no matter how much you try to forget.
One of the things I can’t shake is the ship. Every man on this rig knows about it, even if they don’t talk about it. It only appears on stormy nights.
You’ll be out on the deck, fighting to secure the equipment or making sure everything’s holding steady, and then you’ll see it: a massive ship in the distance. It looks like something out of a history book, with big, tattered sails and a wooden hull so covered in barnacles it’s hard to tell where the wood ends and the sea begins. The thing moves through the water like a ghost, silent and smooth, no matter how rough the waves are.
And you never see anyone on board. Not a single soul. The first time I saw it, I thought it was some kind of mirage.
Maybe I’d been out in the sun too long, or maybe the stress of the storm was playing tricks on me. But when I looked around, I saw the same expression on the faces of the men beside me. They saw it too.
We didn’t say a word. No one ever does. But we all think the same thing: that’s Davy Jones.
You’ve probably heard the legend of Davy Jones, but if you haven’t, let me fill you in. They say he’s the captain of the Flying Dutchman, cursed to sail the seas for eternity. Some stories say he was a greedy sailor who betrayed his crew for treasure.
Others say he was a man who fell in love with the sea itself and made a deal with the devil to stay on it forever. Whatever version you believe, the story always ends the same way: Davy Jones is doomed, and so are those who cross his path. Sailors have feared him for centuries.
They say he collects the souls of those who die at sea, dragging them down to his locker at the bottom of the ocean. When you’re surrounded by nothing but water, the old stories start to feel a little more real. They’re the kind of stories that keep you alive.
So, when that ship passes by, you don’t call out to it. You don’t wave, and you sure as hell don’t try to signal it. You keep your head down, do your job, and hope it keeps moving.
It always does. There’s one rule on Rig 32 that you need to understand better than any of the others: never go through the red basement door. You might not even see it during your time here.
It’s not always there, but when it is, you’ll know. It’s a heavy, rust-red door, tucked away at the far end of the rig’s lower levels, near the stairs that lead to storage. You could walk past that spot a hundred times and never see it, but then one day, it’ll just… be there.
Nobody knows why. Nobody knows who built it or why it comes and goes like it does. If you see it, do yourself a favor: turn around and leave.
Don’t touch the handle. Don’t even stand there too long looking at it. The longer you linger, the more curious you’ll get, and curiosity on Rig 32 is the kind of thing that’ll get you killed.
The last person who ignored that rule didn’t live to regret it. His name was Marco. He was a welder, a good guy, always joking around and quick to lend a hand.
He’d been on the rig for maybe six months when he came across the door. I don’t know what made him open it, but he did. He didn’t tell anyone—he just slipped inside during his shift and didn’t come back.
We searched high and low for him, tore the rig apart looking, but he was gone. Weeks later, during a storm, his body washed up onto the deck. That was the first and only time I’ve ever seen something like that happen.
The sea doesn’t give back what it takes, not usually. But there he was, sprawled out on the deck, cold as the metal beneath him. I didn’t always follow the rules, though.
When I was young and new, I had a streak of rebellion in me. I didn’t like being told what I could and couldn’t do, especially when no one could give me a good reason why. So, one night, when the door appeared during my shift, I decided to see for myself what was on the other side.
It was stupid. I knew it even as I turned the handle and stepped through. The door was heavy, and it groaned on its hinges as it opened.
Beyond it was a metal staircase that spiraled downward, deeper than I thought possible. The air grew colder with every step I took, and the sound of the rig’s machinery faded into a muffled hum. When I reached the bottom, I found myself in a strange, narrow room.
The walls were steel, slick with condensation, and the floor was uneven, like it had been warped by the pressure of the water surrounding it. The whole room was submerged, with a wide, circular window taking up most of one wall. Through that window, I could see the ocean—dark, vast, and endless.
There were no other doors, no signs of any purpose for the room. Just the red door behind me and that window staring out into the deep. I didn’t stick around long.
The longer I stood there, the more I felt like I didn’t belong. I climbed back up the stairs, closed the door behind me, and never looked back. The next day, the door was gone.
I’ve only seen it a handful of times since then, and every time, I give it a wide berth. I don’t know what would’ve happened if I’d stayed longer, or worse, if the door had disappeared while I was still inside. That’s the thing about it—you can’t trust it to stay where it is.
It comes and goes on its own terms, and you don’t want to be caught on the wrong side of it when it vanishes. I don’t know why the door exists. I don’t know who built that room or why it’s there.
Maybe it’s part of the rig’s original design, something left behind from a time when people didn’t ask so many questions. Or maybe it’s something else entirely, something that doesn’t belong in this world. Whatever it is, it’s not for us to understand.
All we can do is stay out of its way. If you’re unlucky enough to stumble across it during your time here, remember this: leave it alone. Do not go inside.
Then there’s the captain’s room. No, not mine. It belonged to the captain before me.
The room’s been empty for years now, and no one goes inside. It’s not locked—you could open the door if you wanted to—but no one does. It’s a nice space, too, bigger than the regular bunks, with its own desk, a window that looks out over the ocean, and a bed that’s more comfortable than anything else on the rig.
But it’s been left alone, untouched, like a museum exhibit sealed off from the rest of the world. The thing is, the old captain disappeared. Just like that.
One day, he was here, running the rig like usual, and the next, he wasn’t. There was no warning, no goodbye, no sign of struggle. He was just.
. . gone.
The crew searched high and low, tore through every inch of the rig, but they didn’t find so much as a footprint. That was decades ago. His disappearance is still a mystery, one of many on Rig 32.
I’ve asked around, tried to piece together what happened from the men who were here back then, but no one knows—or if they do, they’re not saying. All they’ll tell me is that he was a good captain, fair and hardworking, the kind of leader people respected. And then, one day, he wasn’t there anymore.
The room stays empty now, not out of superstition, but out of respect. At least, that’s what the crew says. But that’s not the strangest part.
On calm nights, when the sea is still and the rig is quiet, some of the crew say they’ve seen a man in a yellow jacket out on the observation deck. He’s always standing by the railing, smoking a cigarette. If you get close enough, you’ll see he’s wearing a silver pin—the same one every worker here gets when they start.
The first time I heard about him, I thought it was a joke. A ghost story told to spook the rookies. But then I saw him for myself.
It was a calm night, the kind where the sea looks like glass and the stars stretch out forever. I went up to the observation deck for a smoke, like I always do after my shift. At first, I thought I was alone, but then I saw him: a man in a yellow jacket, standing with his back to me, staring out at the water.
I don’t know why, but I nodded to him and said, “Good evening. ” He turned his head slightly, just enough for me to see the outline of his face in the dim light. He didn’t say anything, just nodded back and took another drag from his cigarette.
I stood there for a minute, unsure of what to do, and then I walked away. I didn’t go back to the deck for three days after that. That’s the rule.
If you see him, always say something—acknowledge him, be polite—but don’t linger. Don’t push your luck. And whatever you do, don’t go back to the deck for a few days.
The crew says it’s safer that way. Some of them believe the man in the yellow jacket is the old captain, still watching over the rig in his own way. Others think he’s something else entirely, something the ocean sent to remind us of our place.
Whatever he is, sometimes people disappear after seeing him. Not often, but enough to notice. There’s Marco, the welder who vanished after the red door.
Before him, there was a deckhand named Vic who ignored the three-day rule. He went back to the observation deck the very next night and was gone by morning. No one knows what happens to them.
I’ve taken to leaving a cup of coffee on the deck when I see him. It’s nothing fancy, just the same stuff we drink in the cafeteria, but it feels like the right thing to do. My parents weren’t religious, but they always taught me to respect things I didn’t understand.
The coffee is my way of doing that, a kind of offering, I suppose. I don’t know if he takes it—by the time I check, the cup is always empty, but that could just be the wind or the sea spray. Still, it makes me feel better.
I’ve only seen him a handful of times over the years, and each time, it’s the same. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, just stands there with his cigarette, staring out at the water like he’s waiting for something. Or someone.
If you’re smart, you’ll follow the rules. If you see him, nod your head, say good evening, maybe ask a question if you’re feeling brave. He won’t answer, but that’s not the point.
The point is to show respect. After all, if it is the old captain, he’s earned that much. That’s all I’ve got to say about the man in the yellow jacket.
You’ll have to decide for yourself what to believe. Finally, there are the badges. Every crew member on Rig 13 gets one when they come aboard.
It’s about the size of a silver dollar, made of some kind of polished metal that doesn’t tarnish, no matter how many storms you’re caught in. On the front, there’s an engraving of a kraken wrapped around an anchor, along with the company’s logo etched in a way that catches the light. Officially, the badges are just company IDs.
They let you identify yourself, clock in and out, and access certain areas of the rig. But like most things out here, there’s more to them than meets the eye. The badges are also keys.
Certain badges open doors that don’t exist on any blueprint, doors tucked away in the lower levels where the rig descends deep into the water. These aren’t your usual maintenance rooms or storage spaces. No one talks about what’s behind those doors, and I don’t think anyone really wants to know.
There’s something about them that makes your gut twist, even if you’re just walking past. And then there’s what’s below the rig. We don’t know what it is, only that it’s big.
Bigger than the rig itself. It’s not violent—not so far, anyway—but it’s there. Sometimes, when the rig groans, I can’t tell if it’s the machinery straining or if it’s that thing in the depths letting out a low, guttural sound.
Whatever it is, you don’t want to get too close to it. And you don’t want it noticing you. That’s why we wear the badges.
They keep us safe. At least, that’s what we believe. But the badges do more than keep us safe from whatever’s down there.
They also serve as a lifeline. If you ever find yourself thrown overboard during a storm—and believe me, you don’t want to be in that water for long—the badge is your only chance at survival. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it’s something you’ll never forget.
I’ve only seen it happen once, about ten years ago. It was during one of the worst storms I’ve ever experienced. The waves were towering, slamming against the rig with enough force to make it shudder.
The wind was deafening, and the rain came down in sheets so thick you could barely see your hand in front of your face. We were all strapped in, trying to keep the equipment secure, when one of the rookies lost his footing. He went over the railing, and just like that, he was in the water.
The waves were brutal, tossing him around like a rag doll. We shouted, threw ropes, tried everything we could, but the current was too strong. Then, as we watched, the dozen eyes I told you about appeared.
They dotted the water’s surface. And then, from the depths, something else emerged—a mouth. It was enormous, as wide as half the rig, and circular.
It wasn’t filled with sharp, jagged teeth like you’d expect from a sea monster. These were human teeth. Rows and rows of them, straight and yellowed, just like the fish we sometimes find on the deck.
The mouth started sucking in water, creating a whirlpool that pulled everything toward it. The rookie was doomed. We could see it in his face as he struggled against the current, his screams lost to the roar of the storm.
He clutched his badge, holding it tight, and that’s when it happened. The badge began to glow a light that cut through the chaos like a beacon. Out of nowhere, a kelpie appeared.
It rose from the water like a figure from a dream—or a nightmare, depending on how you see it. It looked like a horse, but its mane was made of seaweed, and its eyes glowed. The rookie didn’t hesitate.
He grabbed onto the kelpie’s neck and held on for dear life as it fought against the whirlpool. The kelpie’s strength was unreal, and it managed to pull him out of the current, carrying him back toward the rig. We were there waiting, hands outstretched, and when the kelpie brought him close enough, we hauled him onto the deck.
The kelpie didn’t linger. As soon as the rookie was safe, it vanished beneath the waves, along with the kraken and its terrible mouth. The storm quieted not long after, like whatever power had been unleashed was satisfied and retreating to the depths.
That’s the only time I’ve ever seen something like that happen, but it’s not the only story. Some of the crew say you can toss your badge into the water and make a kind of bet. You ask for help, and if whatever’s down there likes you, it’ll answer.
But you don’t know what you’ll get—or if you’ll get anything at all. It’s a gamble, and not one I’d recommend taking lightly. What I do know is this: you don’t want to lose your badge.
Keep it close. Wear it always. It’s more than just a piece of metal with a company logo.
It’s your protection, your lifeline, your connection to whatever forces keep this rig afloat. And out here, with the ocean stretching endlessly in every direction, sometimes that’s all you’ve got. That’s the last story I’ll tell you.
If you’re reading this, you’re probably already on the rig, settling into your bunk, adjusting to the constant hum of the machinery and the smell of salt in the air. Maybe you’ll never see the red door, the man in the yellow jacket, or the kelpie. Maybe your time here will be nothing but routine shifts, warm coffee, and Friday pizza nights.
If that’s the case, consider yourself lucky. But if you do see these things, if you hear the groan of something massive beneath you or catch a glimpse of glowing eyes on the water’s surface, remember what I’ve told you. The ocean is beautiful, yes, but she is also vast, ancient, and filled with mysteries we’ll never fully understand.
Respect her, follow the rules, and keep your badge close. Good luck.
