I was 30 and working as a geologist. Part of my training was to visit a small semi-submersible exploration oil rig in the North Sea, where I analysed rock cuttings and helped determine if the well had discovered oil or gas.

It was November 10 1988. The day was sunny, but the sea was rough, with huge waves. I’d been to that rig two or three times before, but this trip was to be my last before returning to office duties in London. I’d been there for 10 days, so I was ready to get back to dry land.

The helicopter, a Sikorsky S61N, came to pick up 11 of us at 8am. The rig was out towards Norway and Denmark, so the journey home would take an hour and 45 minutes.

We’d been in the air for about 35 minutes when I heard a grinding noise. The helicopter descended to about 50m above sea level. It was obvious something wasn’t quite right. The pilot attempted to fly to a nearby oil platform, hoping to land on its helideck, or at the least make a controlled landing next to it. Even in rough seas, this should have been possible by settling gently on the water, facing into the waves, so the helicopter wouldn’t flip.

However, about two miles from safety, the gearbox seized and we abruptly plunged head-first into the sea. My life didn’t exactly flash before my eyes; I just went into survival mode. After the initial impact, the chopper was knocked over by the waves and tipped upside down.

The window next to me imploded. Sea water rushed in, so I undid my seatbelt and pulled myself out of the window as quickly as I could. We’re trained to wait for all motion to stop before making an exit, to avoid being cut to pieces by the helicopter blades, so the others waited and ended up hanging upside down. They had to watch the cabin fill with water, so they could release their belts without crashing down.

By then I was bobbing in the middle of the North Sea, next to the upturned helicopter. I was wearing a waterproof survival suit over my clothes, with a life jacket, so I was buoyant and almost entirely dry, but very cold. The others escaped not long after, and six of us got into a huddle in the water, to make our rescue easier. The others managed to get into another huddle, and we saw them drift away on the rolling waves.

Our group managed to pull ourselves on to the chopper, where we were eventually joined by the pilot and co-pilot, who’d been disoriented in the cockpit, but not hurt. We released the life raft and got in, and were drifting on 20ft waves, tossed around and in danger of being tipped out. I quite enjoyed it: it was like being on a big dipper.

After about 40 minutes we were eventually rescued by another chopper, winched to safety and taken to a nearby rig. I was so grateful to be safe. After being given health checks, a hot shower, clean clothes and a cup of tea, we were put on exactly the same model of chopper to fly home – we had no choice. That flight was probably the worst hour of my life.

I wasn’t injured, but I had lost my shoes, my bag with my spare clothes, my passport, my wallet, the keys to my house and car. I had also been carrying important work documents. They went to the bottom of the North Sea.

The five who drifted off were picked up by a safety vessel, and apparently refused to get a helicopter back to shore. It took them a very long time to get home by sea, in those stormy conditions, whereas we were on the mainland within a couple of hours.

I never have nightmares about the accident, but I do refuse to travel to North Sea rigs. The accident report indicated that the crash was caused by a fault in the gearbox. It also made it clear how lucky we were to have survived.

I feel blessed not to have suffered any lasting effects. I’ve done a lot of flying since, some of it in helicopters. People often ask to travel with me because I’ve already had an accident. I don’t point out that statistically I’m still just as likely to have an accident as they are.

• As told to Sophie Haydock.



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