If you're under the impression that this work is all about fun and rewards, you might think again. It's a misconception to believe that firefighters are immune to fear or that they don't feel vulnerable during emergencies. In fact, a sense of fear is a common and healthy reaction for firefighters heading into potentially dangerous situations. Any seasoned firefighter will confirm that facing these fears is part of the job, and sometimes, it's downright terrifying.
One particularly daunting time was during the 1980s when AIDS first emerged. The initial lack of information, combined with sensational media coverage, fueled widespread public panic. Reports suggested that merely being sneezed on or touching someone with AIDS could be a death sentence. This kind of misinformation left the public, including first responders like us, fraught with unanswered questions: What exactly is AIDS? How does it spread? The medical community was still trying to understand this new virus, and definitive answers were scarce.
Despite the uncertainties, we didn't have the luxury of pausing our responsibilities - we responded to every call. Our daily routine involved numerous medical emergencies, and often, neither we nor the patients knew if they were infected with HIV. At that time, our standard precautions were minimal. We didn't routinely wear gloves, nor did we have protective goggles or gowns. There simply weren't any protocols in place for dealing with something like AIDS.
However, as the crisis unfolded, changes were gradually implemented. The adoption of gloves, for instance, became standard practice around the time AIDS became a well-known health concern, spurred by the urgent need for safety in the face of so much uncertainty. But even with these precautions, the job carried a heavy weight of risk. It wasn't just AIDS; other infectious diseases like tuberculosis posed serious risks as well. With the information we had at the time, every call we answered, every patient we helped, could potentially expose us to these deadly illnesses.
This reality led some firefighters to reconsider their careers, especially those who had already put in decades of service. After 30 years on the job, faced with the increasing risks of exposure to unknown and potentially deadly pathogens, some decided that the prudent choice was to retire. There wasn't much financial incentive to stay longer, and the risk of continuing in such uncertain times just wasn't worth it. So, amid these fears and challenges, a few seasoned firefighters chose to hang it up.
AIDS highlighted our vulnerability. It reminded us, despite our dedication, we are not impervious to the physical and psychological impacts of this work. Dealing with such intense pressures and real threats to personal health, not to mention possibly taking it home to your family, required a profound mental resilience, qualities that define the essence of what it means to be a firefighter.
The transition to retirement for some had opened up opportunities for promotions within the department. I distinctly remember my first promotional exam to become an engineer - a position that required both technical skill and precision. However, during the exam, I was overcome by a wave of anxiety that clouded my thinking, rendering me unable to perform simple calculations, a situation I embarrassingly refer to as having a brain fart.
The exam consisted of written, practical and oral interview components. I managed to pass the written test but faced challenges during the practical simulation. In this simulation, I was tasked with handling a fire on a hillside, with a firefighter positioned 50 feet down the slope, operating an inch and a half hose. The question was straightforward: What pressure should I pump to it? I knew the standard pressure was 150 psi and that adjustments had to be made for elevation. Despite hearing the word "hillside," I misunderstood the specifics of the firefighter's position, incorrectly assuming he was above me rather than below. Consequently, I increased the pressure by 25 pounds, when in fact, I should have reduced it to 125 psi to account for the downhill position.
Needless to say, I failed the practical test. Frustrated and embarrassed, I contested the results, arguing that the scenario had been inadequately described. Even with the backing of a fire chief who sympathized with my plight and suggested leniency, the decision stood firm. The feedback was blunt and disheartening: I hadn't listened carefully nor did I follow instructions accurately. Reflecting on this, I recognized that failing the test wasn't just a personal setback but a potential risk to any firefighter who might depend on my decisions in the field. In hindsight, I'm grateful the panel upheld their standards - it was a tough, yet valuable lesson in accountability and the importance of attention to detail.
This experience taught me that one of the most critical skills isn't physical strength or technical ability, but the capacity to listen attentively. To emphasize this point, consider a scenario involving a rookie driving a rescue vehicle with an experienced firefighter as the lead. After a routine medical call, the lead instructs the rookie to turn left at the next light. Instead of following directions, the rookie opts for an alternate route he believes is faster. The lead firefighter allows this, only to later document the incident, highlighting the rookie's failure to follow direct orders.
Such instances underscore a fundamental truth in firefighting: the value of being a team player who listens and executes based on given instructions. This principle extends even to physical agility tests for prospective firefighters. For example, candidates might be instructed to perform a specific task with hanging a smoke ejector, like attaching it in a particular order to a window sill, right to left, left to right. Failure to adhere precisely to these instructions, regardless of physical capability, results in disqualification.
In the fire service, where the stakes are invariably high, the ability to listen and follow through with precision isn't just a professional requirement - it's a safety imperative. Every call, every situation demands unwavering attention and compliance to ensure not only personal safety but also the safety of the team and those we serve. It's a lesson I learned the hard way but have come to value profoundly. Aspiring firefighters must understand that while physical and mental preparedness is crucial, the ability to listen and interpret instructions under pressure is what truly defines one's effectiveness and reliability in the field.
During my nearly 20-year tenure in the fire service, spanning the 1970s through the 1990s, I had the privilege of training numerous rookie firefighters, including a remarkable group of four women who were preparing for the entry exam. These women not only met but often exceeded the performance of many of their men counterparts. They demonstrated not just the ability to listen and follow directions meticulously but also exhibited a genuine passion for the demanding work of firefighting. They approached every task with respect for others and possessed the physical strength required to perform every operation expected of a firefighter.
At that time, the inclusion of women in the fire service was a contentious issue. Some opposed it, others merely tolerated it, but there were also those of us who actively supported and facilitated it. I am proud to have been among the latter group, helping to train these women who would go on to have distinguished 30+ year careers in firefighting. These women proved any naysayers wrong - they were capable of performing rescues and handling intense physical demands, often surpassing the abilities of their male colleagues.
Aside from the evolving role of women in firefighting, another significant aspect of my career was the absence of a structured physical training program during the early years. While major city departments like the Los Angeles City Fire Department had established physical training programs, it was not common in smaller departments. Recognizing the importance of physical fitness for both my safety and the effectiveness of our team, I took the initiative to learn from the LA City Fire program.
I visited the LA City Fire Department, spoke with a battalion chief, and brought back a comprehensive plan for a physical training program. We adapted this into a Standard Operating Procedure (SOP) for the Santa Barbara City Fire Department, and presented it to our chief. After gaining approval, it was implemented as part of our daily routine, granting firefighters an hour each day to engage in physical exercise while on duty. This program was voluntary - some participated, others did not - but it marked a significant shift towards prioritizing the health and fitness of the department.
However, pioneering such initiatives did not come without its quirks. Introducing these changes led to me being humorously labeled a "leg licker," a term jokingly used to describe someone who seeks favor or advancement by currying favor with superiors through good deeds. This label was also applied to those who created SOPs or took on additional responsibilities, especially when promotional exams were on the horizon.
While the term was used in jest, and we often laughed it off, it reflected a broader truth about the culture within the fire service. In such a demanding and sometimes politically charged environment, having a thick skin and the ability to laugh at oneself is essential. Taking criticisms or jokes too seriously could make life at the fire station unnecessarily difficult.
Being part of the fire service involves continuous learning, adapting to new roles, and sometimes dealing with internal politics and changing cultural norms. Throughout all this, maintaining a sense of humor and not taking oneself too seriously were as crucial as any tactical acumen. It's about resilience - not just in the face of physical challenges but also in navigating the complexities of department dynamics and evolving societal expectations.
In retrospect, our careers were deeply enriched by these experiences - from advocating for and training women in the fire service to initiating fitness programs and writing SOPs. Each element contributed to a fulfilling career that was about much more than extinguishing fires; it was about fostering a progressive, inclusive, and healthy workplace. And through it all, learning to roll with the punches and laugh at the absurdities along the way helped keep me grounded and focused on what truly mattered - serving the community and supporting my fellow firefighters.
The first decade of fireground and emergency services experience translated into a deep knowledge of fire behavior, fire ground management, and group dynamics. As a senior firefighter, imparting this knowledge through mentorship became a key part of every firefighters role. Training new firefighters, teaching them the nuances of the job, was not just about passing on skills but also about nurturing the next generation. Training in the early days was somewhat discretionary. There were basic hose lays we were tested on periodically but the routine of training was left to the station captain. Most captains were type A personalities, to say they were over-active is an understatement. We would train day and night, over and over, making up our own scenarios then repeating until we got it right. Getting it right was also a matter of speed. How fast could you deploy an effective water stream onto the fire, how many mistakes did you notice and how could it be done better and faster next time. Repetition is reputation, and if you didn't like to train, well, I don't know what would become of you but you certainly wouldn't last long at Santa Barbara City Fire.
Another thing that pops up frequently is overtime. Remember those B-Shifters? That's where they made their extra money, coming in off duty to work overtime was their bread and butter. They weren't about to start some business on the side. They would master various construction trades like concrete or fences but it was seldom they'd be working a side gig off duty. B shifters, from my perspective, were hardcore smoke eating, seriously badass firefighters. They made their money fighting fires and that's all they wanted to do. If you wanted a day off for a family event and needed a relief firefighter to come in to work for you, you called a B-Shifter. If a lead captain at station one needed to fill an overtime slot, they'd call a B-Shifter.
Part of the deal when working overtime was that you brought a half gallon of ice cream to the station as a friendly gesture, and you got thrown into a district with an apparatus and crew that you might not know as well as your own assigned district and apparatus.
On one overtime shift we went to a structure fire, it was "going good," and none of us could seem to put it out. "Going good," is a term used to describe a working fire on arrival. The fire was burning in a location somewhere in the building and nobody could find the source or seat of the fire. It wasn't in the attic. There was no basement. It wasn't in the subfloor. There was no specific room in the house that it seemed to be coming from. Access was difficult because there was furniture stacked up everywhere. And this had been burning for a half hour with no success in putting it out. The battalion chief rallied everybody out on the street to talk about it and gather some ideas.
Someone chimed in with a very unconventional idea, "look, it's hot as fuck in the back, it makes sense that the fire's got to be rolling in the back of the building pretty good, but there's no access to it." After breaking the rear window we discovered mattresses up against the wall preventing access or ventilation. Difficult access from all perimeter walls. "Let's just cut the fucking wall out." Well, desperate times, I guess. The battalion chief gave us the approval. We got the chainsaw and cut out a section of the house in the back. And sure enough, we discovered the fire. Our opening let enough oxygen in to light up the source of the fire which we were able to extinguish. It was odd that opening the roof didn't do it, but opening up that wall did. Sometimes the textbook version doesn't work and you have to get creative.
Meanwhile, while we were in the backyard getting ready to open this wall, there was this very irate, large man in the neighborhood property next door yelling at us, telling us, basically, we're fucking idiots. "What the fuck are you doing? You can't put this fire out? You dumbass motherfucker! I'm going to kick your fucking ass if you don't put this fucking fire out, motherfucker." We got on the radio and asked for law enforcement. Thankfully, an officer came by and took the guy away. This is the kind of bullshit we had to deal with sometimes. It doesn't look good. It doesn't feel good. And it's a little precarious. During those times, I will say, as a visual effect, my belt ax served me well.
A belt ax is a piece of equipment that every firefighter is issued and wears mandatory to every emergency response. A belt ax is a very large ax, about a 3 foot handle, it hangs at your waist and sits in a leather saddle with a buttoned strap over it, ready to pull out for forcible entry. But yeah, having a belt ax hanging from your hip would generally imply to anyone who was irate or pissed off, to consider backing off.
Another time when a belt ax came in handy was at a drug overdose involving a large group of intoxicated men and women at a local park at about 2 AM in the morning. We show up and there's 25-30 people huddled around a friend of theirs laying on the ground unconscious, looking pale as if he's not breathing. It's their buddy and they're all very concerned, and a bit drunk. There's nobody else around except the three of us and this large group. The guy on the ground is going to die in the middle of this group if he doesn't get some help soon. We've got to get to him to help him so we elbow our way in, working our way through the crowd. It was sorta like we really were not invited but, ok, if you think you can fix this go for it. We get on your knees to start listening to what's going on with the patient's breathing. Questions through our mind, is he breathing? Does he have a pulse? We start to check his vitals and then sure enough, a few people from the crowd say, "you better fuckin' save my brother motherfucker, or I'll kick your ass!" and I'm thinking, do they see my belt ax? We were able to help and all ended well.
Firefighting was a fun time. Interesting time. A cautious time. A respectful time. Respect for everyone. It didn't matter if someone was rich or poor, fat or thin, tall or short. We treated everybody equally. We always did, and we always will. It's a code in the fire service. Bias was never a concern. We gave it our all for everyone and anyone.
Reflecting on this career as a firefighter, I'm struck by the powerful memories that various locations hold. As I would drive around the city off duty, locations took on deep significance due to the emergencies that unfolded there at one time or another. For instance, a routine drive past a certain intersection could vividly recall the night we experienced a terrible auto accident with serious injuries. Another location would remind me of the scene where someone was stabbed near a theater, or a street where, years ago, a child was tragically struck by a car. Parks, intersections, and residential blocks were no longer just scenery, they were landmarks of archived intense emotional experiences.
These memories could resurface unexpectedly, vivid and jarring. One day, spending a quiet afternoon at home with my family, suddenly I'd remember the devastating image of a seven-year-old skateboarder hit by a car, or the baby toddler who drowned in the family pool, or an elderly man who passed away, leaving his lifelong 60 year partner behind. These were not just calls we went on to control and mitigate an emergency; they were profound encounters with human fragility and loss, moments that stayed hidden in the recesses of the mind, only to re-emerge when least expected.
Dealing with these accumulated memories wasn't a straightforward process. The timeline for processing such experiences varies widely among firefighters. For some, it might take years or even decades before they fully confront and reconcile these emotional experiences and burdens. The importance of addressing these feelings early on cannot be understated; suppressing them without resolution can lead to significant personal strife.
The 1990s brought a wave of changes with the introduction of wellness and sensitivity training within the fire service. This era emphasized psychological well-being, political correctness, and how to appropriately interact in a changing social environment. Topics like sexual harassment, while critically important, were part of a broader cultural shift that some found difficult to adapt to. For those who had spent decades in the service, adapting to these new norms could feel overwhelming or unnecessary, given their previous experiences and the culture they were accustomed to.
However, this new focus on mental health and respectful communication was necessary and appreciated. It aimed to address not only emerging social awareness but also the internal impacts of the job - such as dealing with the psychological aftermath of emergencies that firefighters face on a day-to-day basis. While some of my colleagues struggled with these changes, others welcomed them, recognizing the benefits of embracing a more aware and sensitive workplace.
As I navigated through these societal and psychological shifts, I reached a point in my career where I felt a certain ease due to the depth and breadth of my experiences. Daily routines became more comfortable, and there was a temptation to relax into the familiarity. Yet, comfort can be a danger in itself. In firefighting, complacency is a risk that must be vigilantly avoided. No matter how routine the day might seem, the necessity to remain alert and question everything is paramount. It may sound obsessive to the general public, but each emergency call demanded a high level of readiness, a commitment to safety, and a readiness to respond to the unexpected or unknown.
This evolving landscape of firefighting - marked by intense personal experiences, emerging social consciousness, and the ever-present need for alertness - defined the years within the fire service. There was a balance of remembering the past yet moving forward, of embracing new ways while honoring the demands of the job. As the world around us changed, so too did the nature of firefighting, requiring a continual adaptation that was as challenging as it was vital.
Back in the 1980s I faced my second promotional exam for the position of engineer. At that time, my enthusiasm for advancement had waned significantly. I approached the exam with a sense of apathy, merely going through the motions without genuine interest. I wasn't particularly keen on promotion; I was content being a hoseman, deeply engaged in the hands-on aspect of firefighting. Consequently, I failed the exam, which didn't particularly bother me at the time. Beyond my duties, I was preoccupied with building houses and creating businesses on the side, pursuits that provided me with distractions and a sense of fulfillment outside the firehouse.
In the firehouse I observed colleagues who were entirely devoted to their careers in firefighting. They placed all their hopes in the fire service, often getting deeply disappointed when passed over for promotion. Our department had a policy, which I recall as "The Rule of Five." This rule allowed the fire chief significant discretion, enabling him to select any of the top five or ten candidates from the promotional exam for advancement to positions like engineer, captain, and battalion chief. This policy wasn't well-received by everyone, particularly those who, despite ranking high on the test, found themselves overlooked and passed over.
Being passed over for promotion under this system I am sure must have felt like a public embarrassment and a profound insult. It bred more apathy and demotivation among the majority of firefighters as a whole. However, it's important to note that those who benefited from this discretionary rule often did not take their promotions for granted. Contrary to what some might expect, these individuals were not arrogant or dismissive of the responsibility that came with their new roles. They were profoundly committed and professional, respecting the opportunity they were given and striving to contribute positively to the department.
The so-called "golden boys," as some may have labeled them, were far from being conceited or arrogant. They understood the weight of their roles and utilized their positions to effect substantial improvements and provide benefits to the fire service community. These leaders were well-aware of their duties and the expectations placed upon them, and they approached their roles with a deep commitment to service and professionalism.
This new system of selecting candidates for promotion, though controversial, was not without its merits. The differences in capability, knowledge, and experience between the top candidates were often marginal, akin to measuring the thinnest slivers of distinction. Each candidate within the top ten had proven their competence and readiness for leadership, making the chief's decision incredibly challenging.
This promotion policy, with all its complexities, highlighted the nuanced and often subjective nature of career advancement within the fire service. It revealed the delicate balance between meritocracy and discretionary choice, each with its own set of advantages and drawbacks. Looking back, it's clear that those who advanced were not only qualified but also deeply dedicated to their roles, often exceeding expectations and contributing significantly to the department's mission.
Reflecting on this period, I recognize the dual nature of such systems. While they can lead to feelings of injustice among the ranks, they also allow for a flexible approach to leadership selection, aiming to identify those who might best lead in varying circumstances. Such policies challenge us to consider what qualities are most crucial in our leaders and how best to foster a fair yet effective system of advancement that honors both merit and potential.
During the period from 1976 to 1996, the life of a firefighter was both enriching and complex, filled with both personal milestones and professional challenges. For me, these years were framed by the joys of family life - my wife, two sons, and now the delight of having four amazing grandchildren. My family was the cornerstone of my happiness and motivation while employed at SBFD. The fire service enabled me to provide for them, but it always came second to my family commitments.
Reflectively, working at the fire department was like living in two different worlds. On duty vs off duty were light years apart. On duty was one crisis after another, off duty was bouncing babies, fishing, water skiing, camping and surfing. They were two opposing worlds in deep contrast to each other.
Professionally,this career was punctuated by opportunities for promotion. By the time of my third promotional exam, I was deeply motivated. With a family to support and a new home under construction, the additional income and responsibilities of an engineering position were attractive. I relished the operational aspects of firefighting - driving the fire trucks and managing the logistical support at scenes.
Surprisingly, I topped the promotional exam on this attempt and came out number one on the engineers promotional list. Despite the department's "rule of five," which allowed the fire chief discretion to promote any of the top ten candidates, I was fortunate to be chosen for promotion. This advancement was a thrilling moment; it was not just about the increase in salary but the recognition and the opportunity to have a greater impact.
However, with new roles came new challenges and, inevitably, some humorous mishaps. One memorable error occurred while navigating the one-way streets of Santa Barbara. As a new engineer, it hadn't yet dawned on me the extent of what I was permitted to do while driving a fire engine. On my first call, I chose a conventional route, only to be met with bewildered looks from my team who expected me to take a shortcut against traffic. This earned me the nickname "Left Out of the Station," to which I responded with a half gallon of ice cream.