11:4

The cravat was gold. Or at least it had once been. A subtle shimmering gold silk with fine threads of midnight blue woven in here and there forming an asymmetric pattern that would twist and dance in the light.

That pattern still caught his eye even though the once favoured cravat was currently wrapped around a corroded fitting on the brass pipe that ran along the base of the outer wall. It had gone from a place of honour in his closet to being wrapped around his neck to try and hold the sweat pouring off his head from flowing down and soaking his shirts to finally an ignoble end as nothing more than an ill-suited and ultimately failed attempt to patch up the secondary vent outflow.

The secondary vent outflow. A few scant months ago he had not even know that such a thing existed and now he was sacrificing his treasures so it might be granted a few more hours of functionality.

He turned his attention to the BOP valve and scratched his week old stubble. There had been two blow outs in the past week and and as far as his research could tell him, these protection valves were never meant to be used more than once. Still, it had worked flawlessly both times and he’d checked it over as thoroughly as he could before resetting it.

He picked up the copper oil can and triggered the little thumb pump several times, lubricating the main valve threads. There was little else he could do there and there was so much else that was demanding his attention.