It was late 1993. My helicopter just landed on the deck of the Sedco 714, a semi-submersible drilling rig nearly 200 kilometers northeast of the Shetland Islands.

As I stepped off the helicopter, I took in the size of everything—the cranes, the derrick, the waves lapping the deck of the standby vessel. I tried to adopt a neutral expression that didn’t hint at the anxiety I felt about spending the next 2 weeks on a giant piece of steel in the middle of the North Sea: a temporary home to 80 men and zero women. Until now.

The tannoy crackled to life as I got into the accommodation block and out of the survival suit. “All arriving personnel report to the cinema for safety induction in 10 minutes.” The men around me didn’t flinch; instructions like these from Arthur the Barge Master were part of their world. They slapped backs, traded jokes, and were carefree.

I, on the other hand, kept a low profile.

I reminded myself of advice I had been given. Don’t fetch the key to the vee-door if someone asks (spoiler alert: it isn’t a door and has no key). Don’t put your underwear in the wash. Hold the handrails, don’t hold the drill pipe.

Over the next few days, I met my crew mates—most as curious of me as I was of them. I learned to use a needle gun and dope brush. I got used to the hum of machinery, the pitch and roll of the rig, and waited as eagerly for the 9 a.m. bacon butties as anyone. I found my way around the rig, down to the mud pits and ballast tanks, up to the drill floor and monkey board.

Then, one day I was with the crane crew when I heard Arthur’s deep, gravelly voice come over the tannoy, “Phone call for Capella on the pipe deck.” The crane operator and roustabouts turned to me, and my stomach dropped.

I stepped up to the pipe deck and took the phone. “Hello, this is Capella.”

A cheerful whistle spilled into my ear—light, breezy, unmistakably “Walking in a Winter Wonderland.”

I said hello again, but the whistling continued. A few bars more. Then paused expectantly. I took a breath in, pursed my lips, and applied myself to whistling “in the meadow we can build a snowman.” 

A faltering dozen notes with crane noises in the background, followed by Arthur joining in with gusto down the line as my whistle collapsed into laughter. Annie Lennox eat your heart out!

“Welcome to the Sedco 714,” Arthur said as the line clicked off.

I realized I was part of a pretty cool crew.

30 years on, as I lead the corporate foundation supporting women leaders in science and technology, I often think about courage. The courage to show up where no one expects you, the courage to learn to be part of a crew that doesn’t look like you, but also the everyday courage to ask questions, speak up, and keep going through uncertainty.

I remain grateful for the lessons my crewmates taught me as a young engineer and am delighted to help others find their own courage.

Congratulations to SLB for 100 years of fostering experiences like these.