2005 in Review (I): Firefightin'

What a difference a year makes... I hadn't even started school at this point last December. Now I'm a certified firefighter in two states, with secondary certifications in Hazmat Operations, Confined Space Rescue, and the National Incident Management System, (which is something we study when we want to put ourselves to sleep quickly-- seriously, take the tests I did on that stuff and you'll snore through a shotgun blast to the kneecap).

Although I had on-and-off thoughts of finally doing this throughout the years, I have to confess that I had little hope of joining the local department when I started class at Anoka Tech. My original plan was to pad my resume, as it were, for when Jen and I eventually uproot ourselves to wherever she'll go to grad school. Jen and Becky twisted my arm to apply to the NRFD on general principle, for which I'm grateful. I inquired at a fortuitous time, and was lucky enough to be hired with a small crew of other probationary firefighters in June.

Since then, I've been to 84 call responses (with twelve hours left in 2005 as I write this, it's perfectly plausible that number could go up). I keep a fairly detailed diary of all my incidents, from which I can draw the statistics and incidents I cite. it's not as though I memorize this stuff. ;)

Of those 84 calls, 52 have been what we call 'CS1,' for 'cover station one,' which translates as: sit around and wait to see if anything else develops. Most incidents don't require multiple trucks; once the first truck is off, the rest of us generally sit around on CS1 and make small talk or look for chores around the station. CS1 is more important than it sounds because, generally speaking, the chief and our closest/most active responders go out with that first truck and will be unavailable for any new incidents erupting simultaneously. It does happen with annoying frequency, and those of us sitting around on CS1 can respond with the mad quickness to new problems. We also stick around to wash off trucks and handle any equipment loading/unloading so the guys who were working at the scene can take a break.

Now, on 32 of those calls, I made the truck and was on-scene at an actual incident. Our department doesn't assign truck positions (save that each requires a certified driver and an officer up front)-- seats on departing engines are first-come, first serve. A mad scramble that frequently becomes a competitive game, which is part of the fun.

That number in itself is a bit deceptive-- I didn't make any trucks at all in the first month and a half I was on the department. I made only 7 in my first four months total; I've made 25 in my last three. That number indicates not only that I've learned exactly where to break the speed limit on my way to the station, but that I'm much more comfortable with my responsibilities these days, and the department is more comfortable with me. I still get warm feelings when I think of the very first time that a bunch of older guys held the sole open spot for me on a truck, and waved for me to hurry onboard, when they could just as easily have driven off without me while I was throwing my gear on.

So, thirty-two actual incidents in seven months. The first was a propane leak in the wee hours of the morning; nothing serious. We played kickball with propane ice while an officer fixed a storage tank valve. The most recent, just last night, was a bullshit time-wasting call for a pack of perfectly healthy twits who'd burned venison on their stove and reported clouds of smoke in their apartment. There were no such clouds... in fact, the place smelled wonderful. They'd done the obvious and opened their porch door and windows... there was no need for us to stage a response to that for young, healthy people.

In between those two, let's see... quite a few car accidents. I've seen four accidents with alcohol directly involved. I've seen helicopter evacuation of patients twice. Oil spills. Lightning strikes all over the place. Arcing power lines, punctured natural-gas mains, and several annoying false alarms. Carbon monoxide scares. An elaborate hazmat response for what turned out to be a bag of medicated foot powder. A water heater fire, several dumpster fires, two very mild structural fires at which I got to do nothing... a mild lightning fire at which I got to help man a hose, and a big fat tree fire at which I got the nozzle. Small-time arson and vandalism. Some guy nearly killed himself with a blanket and a lit cigarette. Some guy seriously burned himself with dry ice while inebriated. A house blew up.

I'm a bit disappointed that I haven't yet had a chance to take the Big Plunge, and pop what you might call the fire service cherry, and work inside an actively-burning structure. We've had three actual structure fires in seven months (I'm just talking the real roarers, not the piddly ones and the one-squirt wonders). I missed one because I was sick and exhausted, and two because I was out of town. Just bad luck, but it rankles. It's not as though I really wish someone's house would burn down, but y'know, when the Jedi Council grants you your lightsaber, you want to find some Sith to pull that sucker and go to work on.

I'm enjoying myself immensely; it's occasionally aggravating but mostly deeply satisfying. I'm glad that my training is over, and doubly glad that my early probie months are past-- class was almost easier to deal with, since we were all on the same (clueless) page. It's nice to be independently functional... to know where everything is, and what my proper place is, and how most of the equipment is operated and cared for, and to have the older guys (mostly) trusting me and my fellow noobs to carry out tasks on our own.

It feels neat to be part of a sort of private world that most people never get to experience. It just feels right, somehow.

In October, we visited the city's elementary school to give some basic fire safety education presentations to the 1st-3rd graders. My role for the day was mostly to demonstrate our gear, but one little girl approached me after our presentation with her hands folded tightly in front of her and a deeply worried expression on her face.

"Will my dog burn if there's a fire?" she asked,

"I don't think you need to worry about it," I said, bullshitting quickly. "Your dog probably has a lot of nice fur, which acts like an extra barrier. So your dog won't burn easily."

"What should I do if my dog does catch fire?"

"Um, do you know how to stop, drop, and roll?"

She nodded.

"You can stop, drop, and roll your dog, too. It works for them just like it works for us. Honest."

She smiled at that, and seemed to perk up a bit, but the next question she asked and the wide-eyed, dead-serious way in which she asked it speared right into my gut.

Very, very quietly, she said: "Will you save my dog if my dog is in a fire?"

When I was a kid, firefighters and paramedics and police officers and so forth seemed impossibly old, impossibly big--mostly nameless members of The Establishment, like a force of nature. Nobody'd ever looked at me like that, or asked that sort of question before, with such a tone of hope and willing trust in their voice. And suddenly I felt impossibly old. I couldn't believe that I'd become someone's Establishment, one of the adults that are trusted to magically fix things when they break.

"Of course," I said. What the hell else could I say to a question like that? "Any one of us would absolutely save your dog if your dog was in a fire."

And she got a look in her eyes like a fifty-pound weight had been lifted from her shoulders, and she waved and walked away smiling.

And that's why I crawl out of bed and do this shit when my back is aching and I'm sick and dog-tired and aggravated with the world in general. And when slush the consistency of cryogenic Silly Putty is raining from the sky or thunderstorms are rearranging half the city. If you must know, it's because I'm a maudlin, sentimental old grump and the trust of one tiny little girl who worries for her dog is worth a thousand adult pains and disappointments to sustain. And if I fell off a burning roof tomorrow and died on the job, I'd still be grateful that I got the chance to find out what that feels like before I went. Yeah, I'm a big weepy shmuck. Sue me.