These personnel entries recorded by [REDACTED] are intended for research purposes only. Entries unrelated to The Event have been removed. All materials found here are the sole property of Eventide Petroleum and are not authorized for reproduction. If any unauthorized person(s) find themselves in possession of these documents, please contact the corporate office for a financial reward.

August 10th, 2021

The jumpers always looked so happy as they marched to their death. You could see their faces clearly from the dozens of security cameras on the deck. Satisfied smiles covered their faces as they bounded carelessly toward the edge of the platform. We’ve installed a higher railing system around the edges, but it only made them work harder to get over the top.

Before they jump, their arms extend out as though they expect something to come from the sky and scoop them up like a mother would pick up a small child. After one or two minutes of holding their crucifixion-like pose, they fall forward and sail through the air until they make an impact with the churning water below.

Suicides on oil rigs aren’t common, but they aren’t unheard of either. The rate for oil extraction workers is nearly twice the percentage of males in the general population. At least that’s what I read when I started researching this job.

From what I’ve seen, it is drastically higher here.

During my first month on the rig, I watched two men plummet to their death from the control room. Braxton and Garvin were their names. Happy guys as far as I could tell. Wife, kids, and nice houses to get back to after their rotations.

“Best job in the world,” Braxton had told me the day we met. He pointed a finger out toward the endless blue waves that spread as far as we could see. “No better view for that matter. It’s almost like the ocean sings to you every night. Like it never wants you to leave.”

He never did leave. Twenty days after we met, Earl Braxton and Jimmy Garvin lept over the side of the rig during the night shift. Their bodies were never recovered.

August 28th, 2021

We’ve lost three more men since I last had a chance to write.

Derek Overton had only been on the rig for six days. Young guy, couldn’t have been more than twenty-two. It was his first offshore job and he had seemed so excited. He was a hard worker too.

“You ever hear anything weird when you’re working out on the platform,” he asked me one day. “Sounds like there is someone out in a boat singing.”

“No,” I replied. “I work down in control and keep an eye on the vital systems. Don’t get outside as much as I should.”

“I’m probably just hearing things. Tried to ask a few of the other workers up top but I guess they’re too busy to talk. A few of them told me I should wear earplugs but I don’t know. The sound of the waves is soothing. The singing noise too. I kind of enjoy it.”

That was two days before he jumped. Our night shift crew wasn’t fast enough to stop him. They never are.

Doyle Hargrove was an old timer. He’d worked on Eventide rigs for over thirty years. According to the duty roster, he was due to rotate home next week. His psychological evaluation was top-notch. No history of mental illness. All of his crew said nothing seemed out of place.

If anything, he seemed happier than he had in months.

Just the same, Doyle threw himself over the side of the rig during the night shift.

The third death wasn’t a jumper. One of the motor hands, Alvey Spencer, was found standing near the edge of the platform, arms outstretched, looking toward the sky. Two roughnecks on the night shift saw him and managed to drag him back from the edge before he scaled the railing to fall into the drink.

Alvey fought them tooth and nail as they pulled him toward the barracks. A few other men heard the commotion and came running to aid in the rescue. The motor hand punched and kicked everyone around him and scrambled to find a grip on the rig floor as they pulled him toward the bulkhead.

The whole time he was just screaming the same thing over and over.

“Let me go! It’s so beautiful! Just let me go!”

Unsure of what to do, the rig manager had them secure Alvey in an empty storage room while he radioed the mainland crew. They informed us they would send a helicopter to retrieve Alvey and take him in for a mental health evaluation. We were all relieved to have finally saved one, but the celebration came too early.

When we opened the storage room, Alvey Spencer swung from his belt secured to a pipe.

Poor bastard. Thought we’d managed to save one.

September 20th, 2021

Shit just keeps getting more and more strange around here. There have been no more jumpers which is great, but corporate has made some odd changes.

Our old rig manager was replaced with some suit from corporate. He doesn’t seem to have much experience in the field. Has a strange way about him. Made a lot of changes, too.

Everyone who works outdoors on the rig has to wear earplugs during their entire shift. No exceptions. It wouldn’t be that big of a deal, but it’s difficult to call someone over the loudspeakers with a wad of foam in their ears.

Men have to work in two-man teams now, regardless of their position. If one goes to the bathroom, the other goes with them. They eat together. Shower together. The only time you are away from them is when you go to bed.

You even have to fill out a daily observation report about your partner. The questions are weird. You figure it would be a productivity thing, but it isn’t like that at all.

Has your partner exhibited any odd behavior?

Does your partner stare off into the distance frequently?

Does your partner seem to hum or sing as they work?

Have you noticed your partner spending too much time near the edge of the platform?

There are also tons of signs posted everywhere on the rig saying we should report any strange thoughts or compulsions to our supervisor. No telling what kind of weird stuff those poor bastards are hearing from the crew. It’s almost an open invitation for bad jokes.

I’m not sure what the hell is going on out here, but it may be time for a job change. My rotation is up on November 1st. It can’t get here soon enough.

October 17th, 2021

Working up on the deck has been a nice change of pace. We’ve been short on roughnecks lately and I accepted a pay bump to help out with grunt work. Steve, my partner, doesn’t follow me around too much which has been nice. We’re both old-timers so it wasn’t too hard to work out an agreement to skirt a few of the new corporate rules.

Those damn earplugs annoyed me too much so mostly I just leave them out. None of the young bucks on the crew say anything about it. Most of them have started keeping theirs out too. Not hard to manage. The suits from corporate stay inside in the air conditioning. Gives us a free run of the place.

I’m more relaxed than I’ve been in months.

Braxton was right. The ocean does sing to you. Sometimes I close my eyes and it almost sounds like a woman. I can almost see here… down below the rig, floating between the white caps. She’s beautiful. It’s like she’s singing just for me.

October 21st, 2021

Steve jumped from the platform yesterday…

We were doing a security check on the railing system around the edge of the platform. They had been hastily installed as the incidents increased and the material wasn’t holding up well against the salty sea spray. Bad news for the maintenance crew.

“Hey,” Steve said to me as I was examining the bolts fastening the railing to the deck. I looked toward him and saw him pointing into the ocean. “Look out there! Looks like a damn lady swimming in the water.”

“It’s fifteen miles to shore and there isn’t a boat in sight, Steve. Your eyes are playing tricks on you.”

“No,” he stated. “Take a look for yourself! She’s waving at us. I think I can hear her… singing.”

I stood up and looked in the direction he pointed. At first, I couldn’t see anything. Just the rolling blue waves.

Then I saw her. Pale skin, dark hair, slender frame. She was bobbing up and down in the water. A long, thin arm waved above her head. She was too far away to make out any details of her face, but I couldn’t help but think she would be the most beautiful woman I’d seen if I were a bit closer.

A strange thought to have when you see a woman floating miles from the shore, but it haunted my mind.

“We’ve got to get someone out to there to help,” Steve said. “Run up to the office and tell the rig manager we need to get out there to her.”

I ran as quickly as I could to the office and threw the door open like a bull in a China shop. It started the men inside. Gasping for air, I told them there was a woman in the water and told them to follow me. We charged out of the office in the direction of Steve.

By the time we returned, Steve was standing on top of the railing, arms outstretched. We shouted his name and ran toward him but he never turned his head or acknowledged us. Just as we reached the bottom of the railing and began to climb up to retrieve him, he tilted over the edge and began to sail down.

My guys were wrenched in horror.

As Steve passed in front of my face I caught a glimpse of his serene smile.

October 30th, 2021

The rescue crew never found Steve or the woman we saw in the water.

I feel like I’m going mad. I’m scared. I hate it here.

The music still fills my ears as I sit here on my bunk. Layers of steel walls and bulkheads can’t drown it out. It’s maddening but oddly beautiful. I want it to stop… but I also don’t. It would probably sound so much better if I could get a bit closer to it.

I wonder if the woman Steve and I saw is the one singing.

I wonder if she is as beautiful as I think she is.

Maybe she’s still down there. She just needs help.

I should help her.

I’m going to see if I can spot her. I’ll just stand by the rail for a little while. Just for a minute.