Ronald M. Helmer

Acid
or 'Around the World in Two Months'

By: Ron M. Helmer

In the spring of 1964 I had a phone call from Ken Newcombe who was Manager of the local office of Harrisons & Crosfield, Chemical Suppliers. He said they had been supplying five gallon glass carboys of concentrated sulphuric acid to Mobil Oil for use in their drilling mud and he was concerned about it being used on drilling rigs in the field on a regular basis. Sulphuric acid, known historically as 'oil of vitriol' is miscible with water in all proportions but great caution is necessary in mixing due to the evolution of intense heat that can cause explosive spattering. If they hadn't had an accident already I'm sure that Joe Messenger, Mobil's Senior Engineer, was taking precautions to avoid one in the future.

I'm sure Joe could supply a much more technical explanation for their need but they had developed what they referred to as S.O.B. (sulfonated oil base) mud and found it more suitable for drilling in certain hydrophilic formations. He had discussed it with Ken and asked if they could devise a safer way of using the acid and Ken had phoned me with the idea that I might blend it with one of their finely divided hydrated calcium silicates; Micro-Cel was his suggested choice. I said I was willing to give it a shot.

I would not describe our first attempts at blending the two products as catastrophic but they were inconvenient to say the least. It turned out that sulphuric acid added to the hydrated calcium silicate acted in the same way as though it had been added directly to water. Terrific heat was generated; if the adjunct had been water it would have boiled, but the hydrated calcium was as light as eider down and shot at high velocity through any opening available to it in the ribbon blender.

As a result there was a fine layer of dry sulphuric acid spread over the entire interior of the plant. To make a long story mercifully short, we finally attached a cooling jacket to the blender and contrived a method of alternately mixing and cooling the contents to make it manageable. On March 25, 1964 the Calgary Herald ran a story headlined "City Company Develops 'Dry' Acid Production." By this time we had sold more than 100,000 lbs. for use in sulfonated oil-base drilling mud. The product had been named "Dry Magic" and was packaged in 50 lb. heavy plastic bags. Process patents had been applied for in all industrialized countries.

The story in The Herald had been picked up by the trade journals and we were soon inundated by letters from manufacturers throughout the world who wanted a safe product to deal with. We had been able to make a product that was at least 80% pure sulphuric acid and still remained free flowing. An added bonus was that the product was endothermic rather than exothermic, in other words, instead of generating heat when mixed with water it had a cooling effect.

One of my most effective marketing demonstrations was to plunge my bare hand and arm into a bag of "Dry Magic" and withdraw it to show the viewers that I had not suffered the terrible burns that I would have suffered from doing the same with liquid sulphuric acid of the same strength. Shortly thereafter I would ask for directions to the washroom ostensibly to wash the residue from my arm. In reality, I needed to wash the residual dry acid powder from my skin. The natural moisture in my skin was sufficient to activate the acid in the hydrate and it began to sting about five minutes following my demonstration.

I had received interested queries from major organizations in just about every country in the world and eventually decided that I would have to speak to them personally before proceeding with patent applications which were quite expensive at that time. Accordingly I had an itinerary drawn up by Larry Incomp at Incomp World Travel Service Limited. You'd think that someone with as impressive a company title as that would know what the hell he was talking about, wouldn't you? I'll tell you more on that later!

As it was, I had an itinerary that extended from March 1, 1964 until April 26, 1964, and included visits to companies in the United States, England, Holland, Belgium, Germany, France, South Africa, Kenya, India, Thailand, The Phillipines, Hong Kong, and Japan. I still have most of the cards and letters I wrote from the cities I visited in addition to the cards and letters I received from my wife. I think of the trip as being much like army life, long periods of boredom interspersed with short periods of excitement.

I have decided to touch on some of the highlights of my trip and hope they won't be too much like army life for you; that is, 'continuous boredom'! Air Canada was still called Trans-Canada Airlines and I had to change planes in Winnipeg before going on to Toronto. There was not much of a layover in Winnipeg but it still took six hours to reach Toronto, compared with the three hours it takes today. Mind you, in the 'fifties' it still took two days (48 hours) by train!

I have come to the conclusion that the visit to Toronto must have been for social reasons. It may have been in respect of herbicide; I'm afraid I've just forgotten! The same goes for where I stayed and what I did in New York from March 3 until the morning of March 4th.

Pan Am flight 74 left about 7:30 p.m. for Amsterdam. Incredibly small load. 8 Tourist passengers 3 First class passengers

I checked into the Grand Hotel Krasnopolsky when I arrived in Amsterdam and John Smith acted as a one-man welcoming committee. I told him that I had been flying all night and was suffering from jet lag. He had very little trouble convincing me that the standard Dutch remedy for jet lag was a shot of Oude Genever followed by a glass of beer. I admit I felt better after following his prescription a couple of times and was able to get some food into myself. I then announced that I was going to hit the sack and would meet him again at the bar at five in the afternoon. Most reformed drunks seem to derive pleasure from encouraging others to get pissed.

-o-

So, like, who is this guy Smith, eh? I met John in Tahiti in 1956. He was a boatbuilder from Montreal, Canada and he and an electrician colleague had delivered a newly-built tugboat to the Tahitian government. John decided to stay over for a while to indulge himself in the exotic delights of the fabled isle (or vice versa). He was still 'on the sauce' at that time so we had many good, albeit intoxicated adventures. I guarantee that he was more fun than he was later after he had taken the pledge and started going to 'meetings'.

A shipmate and I had left a 28-foot Bermuda-rigged sloop wrecked on a coral barrier reef surrounding a tiny island called Tubuai Manu (or Maiou-Iti, depending on which chart you were studying) about forty miles west of Tahiti. I was living with an elderly Tahitian gentleman called Monsieur Maoni who had fought with the French Army in the First World War. His ramshackle cottage was in Fautaua, a tiny non-village fighting the relentless encroachment of the tropical jungle a couple of miles (about a thirty minute walk) from downtown Papeete.

On occasion, after we had been kicked out of Quinn's and Au Col Bleu, I would be accompanied home by a young Tahitian maiden who called herself Louise. (She had a Tahitian name but it was deemed to be 'de rigeur' amongst the island's 'demi-monde' to assume an Anglo-Saxon name. Monsieur Maoni used to enjoy teasing me the following morning about the 'bruit d'amour'. I would laugh and suggest that he give some thought to reinforcing the bed in the front room. And if you don't understand what that was all about I suggest that you take a course of French lessons. (Or better still, fly to Tahiti and get your own girlfriend!)

John and I remained in touch with each other after we returned to Canada. He was travelling to Hamburg to finalize a franchise to manufacture a German invention. He had been campaigning for some time to get me to visit Hamburg with him.

Aw, what the hell, I thought at last, I've got meetings in Kassel, Mannheim and Munich; I might as well start in Hamburg and then travel by train all the way from north to south through West Germany.

We checked into the Atlantic Hotel in Hamburg. That was my first mistake! It was arguably the most expensive accomodation in town, arranged no doubt by some asshole in Montreal who called himself a travel agent.

The following morning I put a couple of dirty dress shirts in the laundry bag and filled out the enclosed instruction sheet. There were three options: Express (same day), Three days and Five days. I chose "Express". That was my second mistake! My laundry came back that evening (delivered by a smiling bellhop when our return to the room had been confirmed, thus guaranteeing a generous tip). When I looked at the bill I nearly had a stroke; it was more than I had paid in Amsterdam for a night's hotel rent.

John was completely 'drip dry' as far as travel wear was concerned and was immensely amused by my resentment of the laundry charges. Smugly overjoyed, he sat in the bathtub soaping and rinsing his shirt, shorts and socks and extolling in a loud voice the merits of 'wash and wear' garments.

'Yes, John, I take your point, I really do!' I shouted as calmly as possible. Now get off my back, asshole! I muttered to myself.

'They also have the advantage of requiring no waiting time and no ironing. If you hang them on hangars while they're still wet they're dry and just like new the following morning,' he droned on didactically. Lord, spare me from seasoned travellers and reformed drunks! I thought.

The following day John was off early to meet with his German people and I wandered the port trying to visualize the shambles that had remained following the Allied bombing two decades before. That evening we were sitting in a large drinking area on the main floor of the Rathaus (the Hamburg City Hall), and yes, they did have a drinking area and a restaurant. We decided to eat dinner in the restaurant.

When the waiter arrived at our table with the menu (all in German, of course) I saw an opportunity to show off my prowess with the local language. (I admit I was still carrying a vestigial grudge about John's smug behaviour vis-a-vis my fuck-up with the laundry).

'Just let me do the ordering, why don't you?' I said confidently. 'I'm fairly proficient with this lingo.'

'Since when?'

'Since I was in Austria in the early fifties,' I replied.

'I don't know why you bother with all that language shit!' John said.

'It can come in handy,' I said. 'Besides, I think the locals appreciate you making the effort, even if your efforts stink!'

'I can't be bothered. If I want something I just point at it; it's always worked for me!'

'What if you get lost somewhere in a strange town?'

'I just hail a cab and tell him the name of my hotel.'

'And what if you're so drunk you forget the name of your hotel?'

'Then I guess I'd be properly fucked, wouldn't I?'

'A consummation devoutly to be wished!' I said.

'Here comes a waiter, let's see you do your stuff.'

'Right! Ober!'

'Mochten Sie jetzt bestellen?'

'Nein, wir brauchen mehr zeit!'

'Nehmen Sie sich zeit! In einegen Minuten bin ich wieder da.'

'What'd he say?' John asked.

'I told him we weren't ready to order; he'll come back in a few minutes. What do you think you might want to eat?'

'I'm ready! I'm hungry! What's this?'

'Himmel und Erde? That's a German standby; it means heaven and earth, but it's just blood sausage, potatoes and apple sauce.'

'Bugger that! I think I'll just stick with something I know, like breaded veal cutlets, potatoes and apple sauce.'

'No sooner said than ordered,' I said. The waiter was approaching.

'Mochten Sie jetzt bestellen, mein herren?' the waiter said.

'Bitte, wir mochte gern Wiener Schnitzel, zwei bestellen. Die es fertig gericht ich hoffe.'

'Naturlich, mein herr!'

'Ein viertel trocken weisswein auch, bitte.'

'Ganz nach Wunsch,' the waiter replied and hastened away.

'I'm quite impressed, I must say,' said John. 'What did you say?'

'I placed two orders for breaded veal cutlets, making sure that we wouldn't have to wait an hour for them to be cooked. I also ordered a pint of dry white wine. So you see it isn't all that complicated.'

We were still discussing the architecture of the town hall when our waiter reappeared and set a plate of steaming food in front of John.

'Where's yours?' John asked.

'He probably had a load of dishes for another table,' I replied. 'I expect he'll be back shortly. Go ahead, dig in.' John didn't hesitate and began eating immediately.

'This is delicious,' he said, chewing on a piece of veal. 'And look, they've included a bit of seasoned sauerkraut from the look of it!' He took a delicate portion and chewed it slowly. 'Mmmm, this is really good, you'll love it! You do like sauerkraut, don't you?' Five minutes stretched into ten, yet there was no sign of our waiter.

'Where is that stupid bastard?' I said crossly.

'Maybe he didn't understand the order clearly,' John said, obviously restraining a smile with difficulty.

'Don't be fucking ridiculous,' I snarled. 'I said 'zwei bestellen', that means 'two orders' in German doesn't it?'

'Don't ask me,' he replied with an innocent smile. 'I'm not fluent in the language.'

'Fuck you!' I said. 'I assume you understand that!' Meanwhile, I was waving frantically in the direction of the waiter. When he finally came to the table there ensued an animated exchange of broken German and vulgar English during which the waiter finally agreed with obvious bafflement that I was not merely a spectator and that he was to serve each of us. 'Stupid bastard!' I muttered as he walked away. 'Dumbkopf!' I thought I heard him mutter.

'Maybe you should just have used two fingers,' John said sanctimoniously.

'Get stuffed!' I said. 'I just happen to have one finger for you!' I held up my hand and gave him the signal.

'Oh, very rude!' John said, smiling happily.

I sat there waiting for my food trying to remember if I had said 'fur zwei' or 'zwei bestellen'. Was I going nuts or did we just draw a stupid waiter by chance? Whatever the case, it wasn't doing a hell of a lot for my self-styled image as a connoisseur of foreign languages.

Back in our room we went to bed early for lack of anything else to do. In spite of my self-admitted brilliance in the German language, the television conversations were unintelligible to me. 'I think maybe we should move out of this firetrap,' I said.

'As firetraps go, it's definitely not inexpensive,' John conceded.

'I think it was the shirt laundry that did me in,' I said. 'Let's check around tomorrow and see if we can find something a little cheaper and a little closer to town.'

'Sounds okay to me,' John said.

I was in the bed nearer the bathroom and eventually felt the effects of the beer and wine I had drunk at the Rathaus. 'I gotta go to the can,' I said.

For all his sobriety, John was obviously feeling in a merry mood. 'Have one for me,' he said with a chuckle, throwing back his bedclothes and rolling onto his left side. The bathroom door was open and the light on, so there was just enough illumination for me to see across the room and realize that John was sleeping in the nude. Just at that moment he let fly with what I presume he expected to be a twenty-five point 'triple thunder blast'.

Regrettably, he seemed to be unaware that the 'gun' was loaded! Instead of leaving a crisp, mirth-provoking fart reverberating in the room he succeeded only in creating a disgusting, wet, 'plotch' sound. I was astonished to see a small, dome-shaped pile of what undoubtedly was 'oompah' resting on the snow-white sheet in close proximity to his bum.

'Migawd!' I cried, 'You've shat!' and burst into hysterical laughter. I went into the bathroom and sat on the toilet, giggling, tears of laughter running down my face. 'I suggest you confine your future 'movements' to the bathroom!' I cried. When I came out of the bathroom I crawled into my bed and told John he had my full support, moral only, and to call on me if he required any advice. Then I turned over and faced the wall just as he started stripping the sheets from his bed.

As I lay there I could hear the water in the shower running and assumed John was giving himself a preliminary rinse. Then I heard the water in the bathtub running and assumed he was getting to the serious 'washer woman' stage with the bed sheets. I think I was chuckling quietly as I dropped off to sleep. A combined call of nature and curiosity awakened me about 3 a.m. and I felt my way across to the bathroom. When I switched on the light I felt thankful that I had been forewarned. The room had a ghostly aspect, with bedsheets covering most of the interior, stretched between shower curtain rods and faucets, door hooks and cupboard handles. Positioning myself for a pee was tricky. The sheets were still quite damp; I wondered if they would be dry by morning. But then again, who cares?

In the morning the sheets were dry, clean but creased and rumpled. When I awakened, John was trying to obscure the strange appearance of them by making the bed look as though it had not been slept in.

'Now, now, we can't be having that!' I said. 'The housekeeper's going to think we slept in the same bed! Best you should leave it rumpled up, like usual.'

'If I do that they'll wonder how come the sheets are all wrinkly,' he complained.

'Too bad! Next time you should make sure that asshole in Vancouver you call a travel agent puts you in a hotel with 'drip dry' sheets, same as your shirts!' I enjoyed that remark and laughed uproariously.

'Not funny!' John said, but I thought it was rather amusing!

— The End —