You needed a job.

And the job market wasn’t what it was.

It seemed it was who you knew and not what you’d done or studied that got your rear in an interview chair and a shiny new payslip in hand.

Thankfully, you knew someone who could vouch for you, get you an interview.

A friend of your father’s, one of the men who worked out on that oil rig in the North Sea.

You’d told him that you’d let your father know of your plans to join his workplace. But you didn’t think you had to, thinking you wouldn’t even get a job offer.

But you did.

And then you kept quiet about it, simply because you knew your father might not be happy with you joining him out there. It was one thing for him to live and work out on some half-dilapidated oil rig with only dangerous, freezing waters for miles around – but it was a different thing entirely for you. He wouldn’t like it.

So, you didn’t tell him.

Not until it was too late for him to stop it. Not until he left to do his rotation on the rig, departing in his car…only for you to make your own way to the pick-up for crew. With a backpack full of your belongings and the knowledge that you might cause a stir with your father, you showed up there late, but ready to go.

Your father was already talking and laughing with some other guys, always the boisterous life of the conversation. But when he finally noticed you, his smile faded.

“Oh, kiddo? What’re you doin’ here? I didn’t leave a bag behind.” Your father, Roy – gestured to the backpack you dropped to the ground with a huff and an apologetic smile, as if breaking the news that your trip was unnecessary.

You glanced behind him, to the man he’d been speaking to - who’d aided in your sneaky job acquirement. Who also had the sense to realise you’d not told your father anything at all. The man’s smile faded and muttering a few choice swear words, quickly scarpered to hang around with some of the other men. He wanted nothing of this awkward family talk.

You explained that it wasn’t his backpack, it was yours – and you’d gotten a job on the oil rig.

Your father spluttered and muttered, unhappy – his smile long gone.

“You – you what? That’s…that’s absurd! I know you’ve been lookin’ for work, but this? You’re not coming with me. You’re not working on that rig – and that’s final!”

You told him you were going, that you’d already been signed up for the same months-long rotation as him, in your specific department. He cursed, a less usual sound since he’d rediscovered his faith. But he wasn’t happy and full of peace right now. He got closer to you, leaning in to talk – a hand on your shoulder as he continued talking.

“Listen, listen to me. For once in your life, just bloody listen to your old Dad! You are not going on that rig! It’s…it’s not safe – alright!? And I don’t fancy sticking you on a rig with some of the rougher characters on board. This isn’t like some shop job, kiddo…this is serious. It’s dangerous out there. Just…stay. Tell em you changed your mind…don’t go.”

But before you could answer, the call went out for all crew to head for transportation to the rig.

And you had a choice to make.

Stay, and make your Dad happy. Or go, and chart your own course - and live with the consequences.