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built for American rig workers, who even by American standards tended to be somewhat oversized. But the lack of elbow room was almost made up for by the abundance of gadgets. In Korea, doors don’t have keys, they have electronic keypads; peepholes had long since been replaced by miniature video cameras; and even the toilet seats buzzed and blinked. As some discovered the wet way, the pushbutton nozzle affixed beneath the seat was not to clean the toilet bowl. But the gadget many of them looked forward to the most was the radiant floor heat. As soon as they walked through the door, they kicked off their shoes and let the floor warm their soles.
    Some crew members found other ways to stay warm.
    Brothels in Korea took three different, notably diverse forms: For those who were short on funds, or merely cheap, the prime option was certain barbershops, their special nature marked by having two barber poles out front instead of the usual single one, and a dust-covered barber chair inside. In a dim back room, an attendant told the customer to strip and lie faceup, then placed a hot towel over his eyes and sternly admonished him not to take it off. A story circulated about one worker who ignored the edict and returned to his apartment psychically scarred after catching sight of the paunchy, middle-aged woman with gray pubic hair climbing over him. “I was trapped,” he protested to all who would listen, still traumatized. He only perked up later when a naïve young crew member who’d never before been out of the United States, or even Mississippi, happened to ask him if he knew a good barbershop.“Definitely,” he responded, and sent the kid to the place with the two barber poles: “Just do what they tell you.”
    For those who wanted sex without a blindfold, there was a slightly more posh option: coffee delivery services. A phone dispatcher took your order for what seemed like a very expensive ration of coffee, and a few minutes later an attractive young woman appeared at your door with a cup of joe and a handful of condoms.
    Feminine companionship could be found without such a stark quid pro quo. Abundant nightclubs with familiar names, American music, and English-speaking hostesses were packed with pretty girls who possessed good grammar, tight clothes, and Philippine visas stamped “vocalist” or “musician.” The surprise was that these girls could really sing or play their instruments. In an attempt to limit the exportation of sex workers, the Philippine government required all women traveling on such visas to demonstrate their musical abilities at the passport office. Those who failed the audition were returned home to grinding poverty, while the talented were put on an airplane to pursue dreams of fame, fortune, or—failing that—an American or European husband.
    Instead they wound up singing for rig workers and hustling drinks to men with little interest in their vocal talent. They got a cut of every outrageously priced glass of heavily watered Kahlua and cream they lured a man to buy for them, but an even bigger cut if a customer purchased their time for the entire evening—an evening that began with a little drunken making out in the bar and inevitably progressed to the hotel room bed. The decision how far to go was up to the individual bar girls, but the prospect of finding a rich American husband could be a powerful motivator. The following morning, about a half hour after the 5:30 bus left for the shipyard, there’d be a secondary exodus of young women in rumpled party clothes emerging sheepishly from the crew apartments.

     
    The long days and long nights continued through the winter as the Horizon approached completion. The two mirror-image crews of 126 needed to sail the rig to the Gulf had been assembled, and after months of paperwork, some adventures and misadventures, a few hangovers, and rumors of one or two cross-cultural pregnancies, the documents were signed, the Koreans bowed, and the