Early in my career, my first transfer to the city's busiest fire station marked a critical phase in my career. The pace was frenetic, and the calls were complex, ranging from structure fires to hazardous material incidents. Each call was a lesson in itself, but the true learning came from the camaraderie with my crew. Their support and guidance were my lifelines, helping me navigate the steep learning curve of structure and wildland firefighting.
As it happened, an opening came up at Station 2 located at 701 East Haley Street in Santa Barbara. Known to be one of the busiest stations in the city, rivaled only by Fire Headquarters, this was a place where the pace never slowed and the calls never ceased. Transitioning to Station 2 was a significant step up in intensity and responsibility. It thrust me right into the thick of the action, presenting challenges and learning opportunities that were as relentless as they were rewarding.
At Station 2, the calls were more frequent and the emergencies more varied. We went to more fires, pushing me to adapt quickly and learn on the fly. With only six months on the job, as a rookie the environment was demanding, but it was exactly what I needed to grow. Each shift tested our skills and resolve as a team, and with each call, I became more adept and confident in my role. The camaraderie among the crew at Station 2 was palpable, forged in the heat of shared trials and triumphs. This was firefighting at its most intense and exhilarating, and we thrived in the ceaseless buzz of activity.
Dave, the engineer, had more than ten years of experience, and my captain, Don, had over 25 years under his belt. With my lack of substantial firefighting experience, I'm sure they had their reservations about me. Fortunately, all three of us enjoyed training, and we extensively practiced hose lays. We repeated drills until every twist of the fitting and every possible scenario was mastered, ensuring we were prepared for any situation on every shift, day or night.
By the way, short story - Six months into my probation as a firefighter, I faced a crucial exam that could end my career if I failed. This exam was particularly strenuous as it required memorizing every street in Santa Barbara along with its intricacies - a daunting task given the city's complex layout. Additionally, the probation period included several written tests and a driving test, where I learned to operate a massive, old Crown fire truck with a stick shift that demanded precise gear shifting to avoid damage.
During my driving test day, the training officer abruptly pulled me from a study session to test my practical skills, which included a detailed quiz about the truck's dashboard and an actual driving test around the city. Despite a minor hiccup where I had to retrieve my forgotten driver's license, the test proceeded without issues. However, the following day I learned I had supposedly failed due to not having my license on hand initially - a decision that seemed to doom my firefighting aspirations. But, after discussing the matter with the fire chief, who dismissed the grounds for my dismissal as trivial, I was granted another chance. This relief was compounded by a reminder of the seriousness of the role, rejuvenating my determination to succeed in the fire service.
Reflecting on the rocky start to my career, I realized how pivotal that moment of failure had been. It wasn't just a hurdle; it was a critical learning point that shaped the firefighter I became. The chief's decision to keep me on didn't just save my job - it reinforced my determination to meet and exceed the expectations of those who had invested their time and trust in me.
My journey wasn't just about fighting fires; it was about overcoming setbacks, embracing opportunities, and constantly evolving. From the uncertainty of probation to the high stakes at Station 2, each step was a building block in my career, each challenge a chance to prove that the chief's faith in me was not misplaced. As I settled into my role at the station, I knew that this was exactly where I needed to be, ready for whatever call came next.
At that time, someone mentioned to me that Station 2 was ranked about 15th in the country for the volume of calls - it was one heck of a busy station. Whether that was true or not, I can't say, but our reality spoke for itself. We were constantly on the move, dispatched answering calls all day and night it seemed. It was an insane pace, but fun. The adrenaline, the non-stop action - it was more than just a job; it was a high-octane adventure that we all thrived on.
Funny story - One night, I pulled an overtime shift at Station 2 on the notorious B Shift. Picture this: six beds, two tidy rows of three, like a dorm from comedy central. We were all lined up in one row, with me sandwiched in the middle. To my right, the captain started snoring like a chainsaw massacring a forest, unbelievably loud! I swore he was pulling a prank until I realized, nope, he's genuinely sawing logs in his sleep. There I was, wide-eyed, ears battered by this auditory assault, when suddenly - a boot whizzes over my head! Richard, the engineer, had chucked his boot at snoring GG, the captain. I burst out laughing. The captain just grunted, rolled over, and blessed us with ten minutes of silence.
So there I was a few months later, still a rookie with less than a year on the job, trying to absorb everything I could. It was a warm July evening on the 26th around 7:45 PM, and we were in the back of Station 2, unwinding with a game of volleyball. The setting was picturesque, typical of a summer night - a neighborhood setting, the neighbor's next door had a couple children who would occasionally visit now and then.
Years later, I discovered that my cousin by marriage used to have a blast at Station 2 back in the 60's. After the crew waxed the floor, they would pick him up by the pants and collar and slide him down the hallway on his stomach. He described it as the most fun he ever had.
Anyways, the evening was approaching dusk when calm was shattered by the sharp ring of the 4 bells, "All stations 1033,"4 more bells as the dispatch blared again "All stations 1033." We scrambled to the rig, geared up and got ready, though unsure of what awaited. The call? A brush fire in the foothills of Montecito, requiring mutual aid.
The response was massive. It seemed like every engine from our city, along with all Montecito fire stations were called into action. It had to be a significant fire with such a response. As we drove towards the site, I scanned the horizon but saw little to hint at the scale of the emergency - no smoke, no visible signs of fire. Yet, the tension among the two other crew members was real. Apparently the location provided "it's off Banana Road!" was a potentially dangerous place for a fire start.
Riding in the back, with a veteran fire captain of around 25 years of service up front, I could sense his focus and intensify when I turned around to look in the cab. From my position riding backward - a perspective that made everything look a bit more dramatic - he tapped on the window urgently. "Look, look," he insisted. When I finally caught sight of what he was pointing at, my heart sank. Ahead was a towering black header of smoke, rolling and massive, a menacing plume that signaled big trouble.
As we got closer, the scenery shifted dramatically. We ventured deeper into the hillsides of Santa Barbara, an area unfamiliar to me, buried in tall trees and brush each turn taking us further into uncharted territory. The chaos escalated with each mile in; the radio chatter was a cacophony of urgent voices crossing over trying to coordinate a response. The situation was dire. The fire was down in a canyon, practically inaccessible, with the wind howling fiercely, turning a tough situation into a potentially catastrophic one. Trees bent sideways back and forth under the force of the gale later reported at 90 mph, and the fire's intensity grew by the minute.
It quickly became clear that the fire was too far down the canyon to reach directly. There was no road, no straightforward access, and it was far too risky to send crews down into such perilous conditions. Very quickly, our unit was assigned to a nearby neighborhood on Circle Drive, tasked with structure protection. These homes and their residents were directly in the path of imminent flames about to arrive.
The experience was a stark reminder of the unpredictability and danger inherent in firefighting. Each call could swing from routine to life-threatening in a matter of moments. As a rookie, witnessing the complexities and rapid strategizing required in such emergencies was both awe-inspiring and daunting. It underscored the immense responsibility that came with the badge and the profound trust placed in us by the community.
The Fire Chief's directive was clear: "set up on Circle Drive and I'll meet you there" As we were setting up, the scene was intense - we were downwind, down canyon of the fire which was headed our way. We had barely a moment to confer with the Chief before being waved down the street. We quickly located a hydrant, hooked up a 2 1/2 inch supply line to protect houses in the area.
Amid the chaos, a local resident caught our attention. He was on his roof in shorts and a t-shirt with a garden hose, futilely trying to douse his roof before the flames arrived. Spotting the fire approaching from his rooftop, he dropped his hose, leaped off the roof, and rushed over to us, exclaiming, "It's big. It's coming this way. What are you going to do?!" The look on his face was 100% fear.
My fire captain, ever composed amidst the frenzy, instructed me to ignore the question. "Don't listen to him. Listen to me," he said firmly. "Get the 300 foot preconnect, take it down the street to that house, set up in the backyard," as he pointed to the house. I prepared to do just that, he added that he would take the 150 preconnect to cover another house up the street.
Quickly, I dragged out and deployed the 300 feet of hose, removing all the kinks, then signaling to my engineer when I was ready for water, both arms up in the air overhead. He saw my signal and charged the line, as I positioned myself in the backyard of this house perched on the edge of this huge open canyon, the sound was growing. The wind was howling, and then, it was like a locomotive thundering down towards us, here it comes - a monstrous power.
Alone in my task, the magnitude of the situation hit me. My captain was similarly isolated a few houses up. Just then, another neighbor approached me in the backyard, and I advised him, "You better stick with me." Although I was relatively new and still grasping the full scope of firefighting tactics, I knew our primary goal was clear: open my nozzle and point it upwards into the wind to create a wide fog spray to shield ourselves and the building from the encroaching flames.
The situation escalated faster than I could process. Within seconds, the fire surged up the canyon wall directly toward us. The backyard ended abruptly at the canyon's edge, there was a small 3 foot retaining wall on the side of the property which provided a minimal barrier from the blaze. The fire, deafening at this point, leaped over the house, spilled into the street, and began setting the hose in the hose bed of our fire truck ablaze.
Caught in this dire situation, every second counted. The heat was intense, the noise overwhelming, and the danger immediate. Our training kicked in, but nothing could fully prepare you for the raw, uncontrollable force of a wildfire this size and intensity. As the flames advanced, my mind raced through every protocol and training scenario I'd learned, but the unpredictable nature of fire always keeps you on edge.
This was firefighting at its most visceral and terrifying moment. Crouching down, hose in hand, tucked against the wall with a neighbor depending on my actions, the responsibility was immense. We were fighting for our very lives. The fire's swift movement blew through the canyon, driven by strong winds, to make it a very humbling experience.
Amid the roar and crackle of the fire, communication with my captain and the rest of the team was crucial. We coordinated as best we could, shouting instructions and updates over the roar. With the constant flow of water from the nozzle spraying overhead, huddled and tucked back against the wall, we closed our eyes and waited. Embers the size of a baseball were flying by, it was untenable, we were at the mercy of mother nature. The hoseline discharging water at 150 psi - around 125 gallons a minute - managed to save us. Remarkably, and somewhat inexplicably, the house we sheltered by also survived the onslaught.
Meanwhile out front on the street, the engineer on our fire truck was desperately battling flames in the hose bed even as the larger firestorm raged around us, skipping from house to house, randomly igniting homes in its path.
It's crucial to recognize that under typical conditions, extinguishing a single house fire requires three engines and a truck crew. We were just one engine tasked with protecting over a dozen homes, with four or five of them ablaze. It was impossible to prevent all of them from catching fire or even attempt to extinguish all of them. We had to again act swiftly to position ourselves ahead of the fire at another location.
When the intensity of the fire momentarily subsided - mere minutes later - I reunited with my captain. The reprieve was short-lived; we had to move quickly to another location. That night was a relentless sequence of rapid deployments. We were a nomadic crew, darting from one emergency to another as the fire consumed over 234 homes in under six hours.
At each new site, the situation was dire but the objective clear: protect as much as we could. At one point, the captain left me to manage a two-and-a-half-inch hose line alone, which was normally a two-person hose line due to its powerful thrust and unwieldy nature. I was tasked with keeping water on a couple of houses, struggling to control the hose directly off a hydrant when a civilian appeared and lent a hand. His assistance was crucial; without it, managing the hose for any length of time would have been nearly impossible.
As the night progressed and the immediate threats in our area seemed to abate, an unexpected act of kindness punctuated the grim scenario. A woman approached with a bucket of lemonade. She had chosen to stay behind during the evacuation, and now, seeing us, she offered what little comfort she could. We gratefully accepted the refreshment - a significant gesture amid the chaos.
Soon after, my crew returned to pick me up, and we moved closer to the city, where the fire threatened to advance towards downtown - and to the ocean. The potential for devastation was immense; the fire could have reached all the way to the wharf if not for a timely shift in the wind around midnight. This natural intervention prevented what could have been a total loss of the downtown area to the flames. It was a close call, a reminder of how reliant we sometimes are on the caprices of nature in this line of work.
This event was one of the largest wildland fires in California at the time, with a staggering loss of property. The aftermath was overwhelming: weeks of mop-up operations, endless cleanup, road closures, and investigations. It took nearly eight weeks to extinguish all the hotspots.
By the end of that day, my physical condition was as battered as the landscape around me. My eyes were painfully irritated by the smoke and embers, making it difficult to see, and the smoke inhalation was taking its toll. It was an ordeal that tested every fiber of being, both physically and mentally.
Reflecting on that experience, it's clear how each moment of crisis taught me more about the realities of fire behavior than any training exercise or book ever could. From the technical skills needed to manage heavy, unruly equipment, to the emotional resilience required to face such sweeping destruction, each call was a profound lesson in the essence of this profession.
These experiences, although intensely challenging, solidified our commitment to firefighting. They deepened our understanding of the role's demands and honed our abilities to respond under pressure. In the world of firefighting, the lessons come hard and fast, forged in the heat of the moment, and they stick with you, shaping you into not just a firefighter, but a guardian ready to stand between the community and the chaos of mitigating all types of emergencies.
That day on Circle Drive remains etched in my memory - a stark reminder of the risks firefighters face and the critical importance of readiness, response, and resolve in the heart of the blaze. It was a trial by fire in the truest sense, shaping my understanding of the role and the profound commitment required to face such dangers head-on.
After another intense round where we went into several homes to remove burning mattresses, carpet and furniture, my captain checked on me, it was around midnight. He took one look at my weary state and said, "Paul, I think you're done." But I was stubborn, insistent that there was still so much to do, so much more chaos to tame. "Don't worry," he reassured me, "we've got backup. We're going to take a break," and we headed back to the station. By then, it was clear to everyone - we were completely burnt out after six hours of total abuse.
Back at the station, I realized the toll the day had taken on me. My eyes were particularly affected; they hurt badly, and attempts to rinse them out had failed to provide any relief. I could barely squint to see in front of me. Seeing my condition, no pun intended, the captain insisted, "You need to get checked out at the hospital." So, off I went, transported to the local hospital where, exhausted, I fell asleep on a gurney almost immediately.
When I awoke, groggy and disoriented, I noticed another firefighter, Danny, lying on a gurney next to me. Squinting through the discomfort, I asked him, "Hey, what's up Danny? What are you doing here?" His reply was grim, "We got burned out. Our fire truck burned up. We had to take shelter in fire tents to survive." Astonished, I realized my ordeal paled in comparison; his crew had experienced a direct hit, barely escaping as the flames overtook them and their engine.
The doctor's diagnosis for me was straightforward yet sobering: the corneas in my eyes were scratched. He administered something to alleviate the pain and decided to patch one of my eyes to accelerate the healing. Soon after, I was discharged. Danny rose to become one of the finest firefighters in the department.
Feeling slightly better and immensely relieved to be out of the hospital, I set out to find my girlfriend. We eventually found each other at a community center designated for those who had lost their homes. The relief of our reunion was equally reassuring, and we returned to my place where I spent the next couple of days recuperating.
Reflecting on these events, it dawned on me just how profound the experience had been. It was my first major firefighting effort on such a large scale - a true conflagration. Despite the danger, the fatigue, and the injuries, the overwhelming sense of purpose I felt reaffirmed my commitment to this career. Lying there, recovering, the realization settled in: this was exactly what I wanted to do with my life. The clarity of that moment, amidst the aftermath of chaos and destruction, was transformative. I understood the risks and the sacrifices involved, yet my resolve was only strengthened. This wasn't just a job; it was a calling - one that all firefighters are ready to follow for the rest of their days.
Over the months, my time at Station 2 proved to be a crucible, shaping me into a more seasoned firefighter. The constant barrage of calls and the diverse nature of the emergencies we faced taught me about resilience, teamwork, and the critical importance of remaining calm under pressure. Every shift was a lesson, every call a test of our skills and our resolve to serve and protect.
The camaraderie among the crew, the shared moments of triumph and relief, and even the collective fatigue after long shifts - all of these elements wove together into the fabric of my early days at the fire station. They were days filled with challenges, but also immense growth and a deepening commitment to a profession that demands nothing less than everything you've got.