Alexander L. Kielland - accident

My last memories of my uncle PJ, my father’s oldest brother, were of him sprucing himself up in front of the mirror that hung over the faithful Rayburn range in my grandparents’ small two-bedroom semi-detached house at the northern end of O’Molloy Street in Tullamore. I still remember the scent of his aftershave, which he splashed on liberally, and how he took great care in combing his hair to get it just right for his visit to the local pubs to chat and laugh with the friends he had grown up and worked with. He was back for a weekend visit from his home in Breaston, Derby, where he lived with his wife Zoe and his daughter Tara. He had a great job working as a foreman fitter on an oil rig in the North Sea. Its name was the Alexander L. Kielland, a Norwegian semi-submersible drilling rig operated by the Stavanger Drilling II Company, situated in the Ekofisk oil field. PJ was a very bubbly, outgoing character. He was quick-witted and enjoyed a pint and a laugh in good company. His job paid very well, and with a rota of two weeks on and two weeks off, he was a regular visitor to Ireland, sometimes with his family and sometimes on his own during his time off. As it happened, I was the last member of my family to see PJ alive. Shortly after that visit, a terrible tragedy unfolded—one that would change our lives forever. Early in the evening of 27 March 1980, more than 200 men were off duty in the accommodation on Alexander L. Kielland. The weather was harsh, with rain, dense fog, wind gusting to 40 knots (74 km/h), and waves up to 12 metres (39 ft) high. Kielland had just been winched away from the Edda production platform. Minutes before 18:30, those on board felt a ‘sharp crack’ followed by ‘some kind of trembling.’ Suddenly, Kielland heeled over 30° and then stabilised. Five of the six anchor cables had broken, with the one remaining cable preventing the rig from capsizing. However, the list continued to increase, and at 18:53, the remaining anchor cable snapped, and the rig capsized completely. At the time of the disaster, 130 men were in the mess hall and the cinema. Kielland had seven 50-man lifeboats and twenty 20-man rafts. Four lifeboats were launched, but only one managed to release from the lowering cables due to a safety device that required the strain to be removed before release. A fifth lifeboat came adrift and surfaced upside down; its occupants managed to right it and gathered nineteen men from the water. Two of Kielland’s rafts were detached, and three men were rescued from them. Two 12-man rafts were thrown from Edda, rescuing thirteen survivors. Seven men were taken from the sea by supply boats, and seven swam to Edda. No one was rescued by the standby vessel Silver Pit, which took an hour to reach the scene. Of the 212 people aboard the rig, 123 had been killed, making it the worst disaster in Norwegian offshore history since the Second World War and the deadliest offshore rig disaster of all time up to that point. The first news we received of the disaster came through mainstream media, followed by more details from PJ’s wife. We were left in shock and disbelief, anxiously waiting to learn if PJ was one of the few survivors. Days passed, and it soon became clear that PJ was one of the missing men. I will always remember the blank stare of my poor grandmother as she looked out the kitchen window, seemingly peering into the heavens as we waited for any news. Rumors circulated that men could be trapped in air pockets in the submerged platform, but as hours turned to days and days to weeks, our hope faded—and so did my grandmother. Clinton Pender After six long weeks, the rig was towed back to port, and my uncle’s remains were located in the wreck. His remains were flown back to Ireland. I vividly remember accompanying my father to the morgue at Dublin Airport. The coffin was white, but as only children were interred in white coffins in Ireland, it was transferred to a traditional Irish oak coffin. PJ was buried in our ancestral burial ground in Durrow, just a few miles from Tullamore. He was the only Irishman who perished in the disaster. I often think of PJ and the last time I saw him. He had such a zest for life and a deep love for his family and heritage. Following his footsteps, I joined the pipe band in Tullamore, where PJ learned his drumming skills. He eventually went on to drum with the Ballinamere Ceili Band, which was very popular in the late 1950s Ceili scene. I will never forget the emotions we all felt during those terrible six weeks in April and May 1980: shock, hope, despair, and resignation. All that’s left for us to do is pray for the 123 souls lost that night and hope they are at peace.   Uncle PJ to the left in the “Ballinamere Ceili Band”. Read more stories here: Alexander L. Kielland: Minnebank

When we began working on the memorial book “The Rig. Alexander L. Kielland”, our ambition was to find photos of all 123 people who perished in the tragedy. From the outset, it seemed like an almost impossible task. After all, nearly 45 years had passed since the accident, and the victims came from multiple countries. By the time the book went to print, we were still missing photos of six individuals. Nonetheless, we were proud of how close we had come to our goal, and we assumed the remaining faces would remain unknown. Among the six missing photos was John Tegowski, a name none of our contacts had any memories of. Proof of his presence on the platform came from his wallet, which was found on the seabed by divers after the accident. Although he was listed with a British address among the deceased, his name suggested a different origin. Who was he? Where did he come from? These questions remained unanswered—until a media appeal changed everything. The Breakthrough One of the British bereaved contacted the BBC, which issued an appeal to find photos of the British victims. Three of the missing photos were of British citizens, and the response was swift. Tips began pouring in from amateur sleuths, family members, and friends of the deceased. John Tegowski, who perished in the ALK accident A distant relative in Poland saw the appeal. He revealed that John Tegowski’s father, Jan, was born in 1918 in Rypałki, Poland. Early in World War II, Jan’s father and two brothers were killed by the Nazis. Jan himself escaped, fled to England, and joined the Polish forces in exile. After the war, he settled in England, married Doreen, and had his only child, John. Childhood and Upbringing Several of John’s relatives and friends reached out after the BBC report. Through them, we gained insight into his life. John grew up in Nottinghamshire, where his father ran a small pig farm. Despite a modest upbringing, their home was filled with warmth and care. John displayed an early talent for solving technical problems. While still in school, he worked part-time repairing radios and TVs at a local shop. There was rarely a problem he couldn’t fix. After attending Dinnington High School in South Yorkshire, he trained as an electronics engineer. Adventures in Zambia In 1976, John accepted a two-year contract in Zambia alongside his close friend from high school, Richard Whiteley. John worked on communication and instrumentation systems at the Rokana smelter, while Richard was a chemical engineer. Together, they explored the African continent and formed lasting friendships. When the contract ended in 1978, John returned to the UK, and Richard moved to South Africa for a time. Despite living on different continents, they stayed in touch. Caption: Alongside friends John Chadwick and Susan (Richard’s girlfriend), they explored life in Africa—ranging from trips to Sunken Lake near Ndola to vacations in Kenya. The Accident That Shouldn’t Have Happened John began working on oil rigs in the North Sea, but according to his friend Richard, he wasn’t supposed to be offshore on March 27, 1980. He went because an acquaintance needed help with a technical issue. Out of loyalty and a sense of duty, John agreed to assist. The plan was to return as soon as the job was done, but bad weather prevented him from leaving the rig. He ended up staying aboard the Alexander L. Kielland. John worked as a technician in the North Sea, likely traveling wherever his expertise was needed. This may explain why none of the survivors we contacted remembered him. His presence on the Kielland that fateful day was likely sheer coincidence. Richard Whiteley and John Tegowski, on holiday in Kenya 1977 John with his parents Jon (Johnny) and Doreen. Jan Tegowski, who fled to England

An important part of the documentation project has been collecting and preserving images related to the Alexander L. Kielland disaster. Some of these images are now published in the book The Rig Alexander L. Kielland Memorial Book. The memorial book is primarily a photo book that provides insight into daily life on the rig before the disaster. It also contains information about everyone who was on the rig on the day of the disaster and how the survivors were rescued. This might not be a book one reads cover to cover, as there are some repetitions, but the intention is to ensure that everyone who was on the rig is mentioned. The information is sourced from interviews conducted after the disaster and accounts from the Memory Bank. At the back of the book, you’ll find links to archives where the interviews with survivors can be read in full. Additionally, the book includes memorial pages with photos of those who perished, family photos of relatives and bereaved, as well as quotes that provide insight into the experiences and memories of those involved in the disaster. The book is dedicated to Kian Reme, who for decades was the leading advocate and spokesperson for the bereaved families. Kian passed away in the summer of 2024. The book is published digitally here :THE RIG One challenge in this book project has been ensuring that all information, especially names, is accurate, as names are often spelled differently in various sources. If you, as a reader, notice any errors, we would greatly appreciate your feedback.