Malaysia Taught Me
"I can’t swim, I can't swim!!!"
His cries filled the cavernous training center, bouncing off the high walls. Flailing, panicked, and visibly exhausted, my fellow BOISET classmate struggled to stay above the surface of the 60-foot-deep pool.
The instructor’s whistle pierced the air, cutting through the chaos, and scuba divers rushed in, pulling the man to safety. He was pale, trembling, and gasping for breath.
“Glenn, you’re next,” barked the instructor.
I froze. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might drown out his next words.
“Get in the helicopter. Remember your training,” he said, locking eyes with me. His tone was matter-of-fact, but his words carried weight. “When the helicopter slams into the water, wait for it to flip. If you don’t, I’ll be fishing your decapitated head out the ocean.”
Well, this was it. No turning back. I swallowed hard, nodding as if I weren’t absolutely terrified.
I climbed into the mock helicopter cabin, taking my seat among the straps and cold metal. The instructor’s voice rang out again, “Brace! Brace! Brace!”
The cabin slammed into the water with a thunderous splash, and icy water rushed in, filling the space in seconds. I took three deep breaths and held the last one as the helicopter flipped. Suddenly, my world was upside down. I unbuckled, pushed toward the emergency exit, and kicked my way to the surface.
As I gulped for air, I thought, Why the hell didn’t I just become a doctor?
This was Malaysia.
I was the youngest member of Murphy Oil’s offshore installation team, and BOISET training was mandatory. Not that my boss, who sat comfortably in his Kuala Lumpur office, ever intended to head offshore himself.
“You’re on the first chopper out tomorrow,” he said, barely looking up from his desk. “Get your ass to KL, hop on the plane to Labuan, and don’t call me unless you have a solution.”
No pressure, right?
Later that month, I found myself in Lumut, overseeing the fabrication of modules for an FPSO. My head was pounding from hours of puking the night before—some questionable satay, I think—and I stared blankly at the monkey tapping on my hotel window.
Its little hand thudded against the glass, its face an odd mix of curiosity and judgment. It looked at me like it couldn’t figure out why I was there either.
Same, little guy. Same.
I had a tight deadline, operators breathing down my neck, and an offshore installation looming. There was no room for error.
And yet, the technical manuals weren’t helping. The procedures weren’t cutting it. We’d hit a snag, and I was out of answers.
But then I remembered what Malaysia had already taught me: relationships trump knowledge every time.
Back at the fabrication facility, the operators had welcomed me into their world. They’d taught me more over breakfast, kopi in hand, than I ever could have learned in a classroom.
Sulaiman, one of the senior operators, had taken a liking to me early on. He’d pull me aside during shifts, cracking jokes or sharing stories. “Glenn, you’re the only engineer who listens,” he said one morning. “That’s why we’ll always back you.”
We bonded over beers after long days, laughed over small things, and talked shop even when we weren’t working. So when the module wouldn’t behave as it should, it wasn’t my technical knowledge that solved the problem. It was Sulaiman.
“Let’s try this,” he said, pointing to a seemingly minor adjustment. It worked.
That success wasn’t mine alone—it belonged to the trust we’d built.
Malaysia had a way of humbling me. From the BOISET training to the offshore installations to the small wins onshore, it forced me to rely on others, to trust them, and to let them trust me.
Out there, in the middle of everything stacked against us—tight deadlines, unpredictable conditions, and relentless pressure—the impossible didn’t seem so impossible when we leaned on one another.
The instructor’s words from that helicopter training stayed with me: “Trust the process.” But Malaysia taught me something deeper: Trust the people.
And trust, I’ve learned, is a lot like building an offshore platform—it’s delicate, complex, and requires constant attention. But once it’s in place, it can weather any storm. That’s what Malaysia gave me: not just the tools to survive, but the relationships to thrive.
So here’s to the people who’ve taught me to tread water, literally and figuratively. To the ones who’ve shown me that even when the odds are stacked against you, leaning on the right team can make the impossible possible.
