As a first-grader attending a Catholic school in the scenic setting of Southern California my days were characterized by getting in trouble and a burgeoning interest in the arts, specifically through the medium of crayons. I vividly recall crafting colorful drawings that featured ripping house fires, gnarly red fire engines, towering long ladder trucks, and a stick house with picket fence. Each house in my drawings had a distinctive second-floor window, behind which a young girl appeared, seemingly in need of rescue. This peculiar theme in my artwork caught the attention of the nuns at my school, leading them to harbor concerns about my fascination with fire rather than my artistic creativity.
The nuns, who closely monitored the students' interests and behaviors, were somewhat alarmed by my repeated depictions of houses in flames and rescue scenarios. They speculated, half in jest and half in earnest concern, that I might grow up to engage in acts of arson. Their worries were not entirely baseless, as I was a troublemaker in and out of the classroom. While unsettling to some, is not an uncommon occurrence among young children, often reflecting a simple marvel at the elements such as fire, wind and water, rather than any deeper, harmful inclination.
During this period, I observed a house fire in our neighborhood. Multiple fire engines responded to the smoke billowing from the building. The firefighters dragged a burning mattress out and douse the flames right on the front lawn. The intensity and turmoil of the scene rooted me in place with fear as I watched alongside a crowd of neighbors from across the street. Despite such early experiences, which might have steered others in a different direction, my life was starting to shift towards a path of service and community. Maybe the nuns pulling me up out of my seat by the ear lobe and dragging me across the room was a good thing.
Another childhood incident that left an impression on me occurred on the Colorado River with my mom and her boyfriend, Ed. We were speeding down the river in Ed's jet boat to pick up groceries. I was sandwiched between Ed, who was driving, and my mom on the bench seat. Suddenly, Ed yelled, "I smell gas, I'm gonna pull over!" Almost instantly, a large flash of fire burst from under the bow where our legs were resting. It was over in a flash, and Ed urgently instructed my mom and me to jump into the water.
Not knowing how to swim, I hesitated, but Ed quickly threw me in after my mom, who could barely swim herself and needed a life ring. She grabbed me in the water as Ed tried to put out the now freely burning fire in the boat's bow. Other boaters quickly came to our rescue, pulling my mom and me to safety in their vessel. Despite efforts to extinguish it, the fire consumed the boat, which eventually burned down to the waterline and sank. This harrowing experience began to change my youthful fascination with fire into a deep respect for its power and the bravery required to fight it.
Understandably, I remained silent for a week following the boat fire incident. This evolving perspective spurred a deep-seated desire to pursue a career in firefighting - a dream shared by many boys and girls who look up to firefighters as embodiments of bravery and service.
Thankfully, I proved the concerned nuns in my childhood wrong, not by succumbing to the lure of fire as a destructive force, but by embracing it as a call to serve and protect people and communities. I was unsupervised after school, everyone worked.
Fast forward. Turning 21 felt like hitting a major league milestone, ready to swing for the fences. It was time to get serious about finding a job. Not just any gig, although I was willing to do anything if it were in the right location. I wanted to be somewhere that felt right. You know, a place I could call home and feel good. That's why I settled on Santa Barbara, California. There was something about the coastal breeze and laid-back vibe that just felt right.
From Walteria Californnia at the foot of the Palos Verdes Peninsula, I drove every other day up to Santa Barbara searching the classifieds for any type of job. I was prepared to pump gas or serve beer, I just wanted to live and begin to plant roots in Santa Barbara. It didn't matter what job, as long as I could pay rent for an unfurnished apartment somewhere.
After a month of driving back n forth every other day I decided to grab a cheap hotel room as a sort of base camp to work from, take a nap etc. The Southern Hotel on lower State Street was a dump, but it was all I could afford, I think it was 20 bucks a night or $105/week. It was so cheap the tenets would typically rent by the month for an even better rate. Subsequently it drew a transient and crusty crowd of troubled folks. The few nights I stayed overnight was interrupted by some guy next door with the dry heaves all night, and someone else yelling down the hallway "shut the fuck up asshole!"
At that time, the City of Santa Barbara had advertised for a dog catcher position at the local community college - a place I'd gotten familiar with, mostly because I liked the open quad area with ocean view, and all the women walking round. So, I gave it a shot and responded to the ad. Turns out, they were looking for a different gender, they wanted a female. But that didn't mean my road ended there. The interview, strangely enough, was at the Santa Barbara City Police Department. Talk about a change of scenery from my earlier high school days of getting high. It was a bit of a wake up call.
I walked into that interview room, not knowing what to expect, faced with a Police Captain and a Lieutenant who seemed as if they could sniff out any bullshit or nonsense from a mile away. Surprisingly, they took a liking to how I carried my bullshit - my answers, my demeanor, maybe even the rebellious spark in my eye. I had been drawn on by police officers with guns pointed directly at me twice growing up in Los Angeles. The first time I was delivering an early morning LA Times in Culver City with my car double parked outside a large apartment complex. As I returned from delivering a dozen papers in the complex, walking outside to my car I heard "Stop and let me see your hands!" I look up to see two parked patrol cars with both officers drawing their guns on me. It's about 4 AM, dark and quiet with no one else around. From a young age, I was taught to respect police officers and to heed their commands. I followed their instructions very carefully, I explained I was delivering the Times, they saw the papers in my open truck, asked me a few questions and dismissed it as a false alarm.
Both times I was drawn on, things could have ended badly had I not been instilled with respect for law enforcement. The second time I was a college student and had lost the key to my moms house, entered through the front window and went upstairs to study. About 20 minutes later I hear "Come down slowly and keep your hands where I can see them!" As I'm walking down the stairs I see one officer kneeling at the window, gun drawn, and another officer out of the corner of my eye off to the right, in the house, gun drawn. I explain "I live here, studying upstairs." After a few questions I was again dismissed as a false alarm. It turns out a neighbor called it in as a burglary in progress, he didn't recognize me.
Anyways, back to my job interview at the Santa Barbara Police Department, they didn't want me for the dog catcher position, actually it was an Animal Control Specialist position. Instead, they called me back for another round, this time for a civilian role at the police station. It was one of those jobs where you're everyone's helper - a Police Services Assistant, or as they put it, a gopher. "Go for this, go for that." I would be the errand boy, which might sound petty, but it was a good paying respectable job. They offered it to me and I scooped it up so I could pay rent on the unfurnished apartment I had my eyes on. Back then you only needed one good reference, a co-signer, first and last month's rent. So I was able to pick up the cheapest place I could find on the Eastside. It was a 5 star resort compared to the Southern Hotel.
My daily duties? I loaded shotguns before shift change, logged evidence when needed, I filled the chalk sticks for the meter maids, and did pretty much everything a civilian could do in a police department at that time. Back in those days, they'd let just about anyone handle this stuff. Nowadays? Not a chance. It was a completely different world in 1975, more relaxed on some fronts, perhaps too relaxed on others.
I had a blast. Every day was different, filled with new challenges and lessons. I was a guy with no interest in law enforcement, no police background whatsoever, and more history of challenging authority than upholding it. Yet there I was, right in the thick of it, learning the ropes in a world completely foreign to me, almost abstract.
In Fact, I was probably the last person any of my friends would expect to find employed in a police department. I was always a bit of a rebel, always pushing the limits - heck, as a teenager I was cited for driving my mini-bike without a license, temporarily detained by police for spitting ice off a freeway overpass, detained by mall security for sleeping overnight in a rental car facility. At 14 I had ordered gunpowder and fireworks casings by mail from a catalog to make fireworks. It was in junior high, my neighborhood buddy across the street, Kent, who I'm still in touch with today, he and I used to make M-80s in my garage. I was an only-child, parents divorced, my grandfather had passed away, my mom, grandmother and aunt all worked, so I could pretty much do just about anything without being noticed. We were good at hiding things, including cases of Colt 45 malt liquor under the house. One time I recall we had some gunpowder leftover so we filled up an empty car wax can, stuck a fuse in it, and set it out in the middle of the street. At night, we lit the fuse and ducked behind the bushes to watch the show.
Just as we were waiting for the big bang, a car came rolling down the street. "Man, we're fucked," my friend muttered, convinced the thing was going to explode any second. But as fate would have it, just as the car rolled over it, the fuse went out. You better believe we were freaking out, counting our lucky stars it didn't go off.
Did that scare us off? Not a chance. We put a new fuse in and watched as that sucker lit up the whole block. It didn't exactly explode - since the can wasn't sealed, it just burst into a massive flash of bright light, like some sort of biblical spectacle, then fizzled out to nothing. What a rush that was, and stupid as stupid can be.
Working at the police station wasn't just about the tasks I did; it was about the people I met and the stories I heard. Each day brought insights into the complexities of law and order, the human stories behind the crimes, and the dedication it takes to keep a community safe. I had the opportunity to sit down daily to eat lunch and converse with undercover detectives who infiltrated drug deals, as well as motorcycle officers sharing stories of high-speed chases.
This wasn't like what you see on television; it was a direct encounter with reality, listening to firsthand accounts of real incidents. What struck me most was their keen observational skills. I could spontaneously ask, "Hey Officer Bond, the lady who walked in 20 minutes ago, what color was her jacket, how tall was she, what color was her hair, and what did she say?" He would recall the details with complete accuracy. These officers, both men and women, were truly at the peak of their performance.
This new job, as unexpected as it was, taught me a lot about responsibility and the nuances of human nature. During my employment at the PD I was witness to dozens of people getting busted doing all kinds of violent and heinous criminal activities. There were car seats logged in the evidence room with body fluids in a rape case, so many knives and guns used in burglaries and assaults, confiscated drugs, a lot of evidence logged from terrible crimes on innocent people. It showed me the importance of giving back to the community and the impact one individual can have, good or bad. And perhaps most importantly, it gave me a newfound respect for the officers and the challenging work they do.
As time passed, Santa Barbara started to feel more like home. It wasn't just the ocean views or the chill lifestyle but the sense of belonging and purpose I found amidst the badges and uniforms. It was here, in the most unlikely of places, that I would find a direction - a path that, while unplanned, was exactly what I needed at those moments in my life.
Life's all about the unexpected turns, the opportunities that pop up when you least anticipate them. And sometimes, it's those very opportunities that shape us, teach us, and guide us to where we're supposed to be. For instance, a few years prior I had the opportunity to participate in Transcendental Meditation Training, in the early 70's it was being promoted widely to young and old alike. I found it to be amazing, the clarity and focus it provided was surreal. I practiced everyday, twice a day for 20-minutes. After a short while I began to set goals, I didn't realize it then but I was essentially manifesting my future to step into. A few times in Santa Barbara prior to getting hired at PD I would go out to the very end of the pier to sit in the early morning and meditate. I discovered then, we make our own joy; no one else can do that for us.
In '75, surfing on a good day was like being a millionaire. The freedom in the water was unparalleled. Getting covered up in the green room, or a head dip, was the goal and Santa Barbara waves delivered. The waves are clean, crisp, fast and fun. I was entering the Santa Barbara City Police Department, not particularly looking for change but open to whatever life tossed my way. Little did I know, my childhood fantasy of becoming a firefighter was around the corner and ready to step into reality.
My employer, the City of Santa Barbara, decided to have an entry-level firefighter position open to test and hire, but here's the kicker: they were only testing existing city employees. I think this was in part due to Federal dollar programs and the city budget. I was all over that. I mean, a chance to chase a dream that had been simmering since I was knee-high to a fire hydrant? Hell yeah!
All toddlers wave to the fire trucks, it's a thing. No way I was sitting that exam out. Typically, at the time firefighter tests attracted huge crowds by the hundreds and thousands. But this? This was a very rare opportunity, I'd be competing with less than 50 men and women.
The first hurdle was the physical agility test, and it wasn't for the faint-hearted. Picture this: what felt like a 100-pound backpack stuffed with hose and hose fittings to be hauled up a steep hill behind a Fire Station. It was a timed event, so you had to sprint up the hill, dump the bullshit in the pack, put the bullshit back in the pack, throw it on your back and then beat it back down the hill. It was brutal. I believe any competitor's recorded times over 4 minutes were dropped and disqualified from going to the next test station. We went in shift, and by the time I got to the bottom, plenty of guys from previous shifts were bent over with dry heaves, or on the ground moaning, some losing their lunch and I came real close to it myself.
The next test station was to climb the aerial ladder - a towering 85-foot ladder swaying slightly in the wind. Just standing there looking up at it was challenging to your spirit. People's eyes got big, a few walked off never to be seen again. Yep, some took one look, smiled and bailed. But I wanted the job and needed the rent money (haha). Despite not being the biggest fan of heights, the sight was just too weirdly exhilarating to turn down. I was used to jumping off roofs, getting hammered in overhead surf. But going up 85 feet, 5 stories in the air without support, wasn't gonna be a simple task.
They had us wear a ladder belt featuring a hefty carabiner style hook, "safety first," they said, "lock in at the top and wave at us, then unlock and come down when you're ready."
You could only climb one ladder rung at a time, hand over hand, each step was huge. It's a bit of a workout, like a stair machine at the gym. As you get higher you begin to feel your heart pumping, your sweaty hands grip each rung a little harder as you go and you notice every move your body makes. At the top you hook in the large carabiner to the top rung, holding on with one hand you give a wave to signal you've conquered this beast with your other hand, then make your descent, conscious of the fact there is nothing holding you onto this ladder other than your two hands. It was one big fucking adrenaline rush.
But the physical test wasn't over. First they exhaust you with the hill climb timed event, then they inject a major dose of fear into you by climbing the 85' aerial ladder, now what? There was also the infamous dummy drag. By now we were pretty much physically spent, I was just about completely exhausted. And this dummy? It looked like it had been through hell and back, weighing somewhere in the 150 range, and dead weight. Trying to get a grip on that battered body to drag it over the line was like wrestling six large and slippery sand bags attached to each other. It was tough and gritty work, and it pushed us all to our limits. I think there may have been as many as 12 of us who passed the physical agility test, with 5 new firefighter positions open.
After surviving the physical agility test, there was the oral interview. Sitting down in front of a couple of seasoned firefighters and a representative from city hall. They hit me with, "What makes you think you can be a firefighter?" Well, I drew on every bit of relevant experience I had - like being a Naui certified scuba lifeguard at El Camino Community College, where I'd run safety training drills underwater for student scuba divers. We went on seaweed reclamation projects, transplanting seaweed from Catalina to Palos Verdes, we'd go on abalone dives and recover gnarly pink abalone the size of a dinner plate. One time we went on a night dive. The only field of visibility was the cone of light cast in front from an underwater flashlight. In a mili-second flash, a stingray swam across my field of vision as if to say, "you're not alone here buddy."
In any event, the fire department called me back for a final interview. This time it was with the Division Chief and Fire Chief. The fire Chief sat at his desk, the other posed himself behind the Chief, both staring me down with questions. The atmosphere was intense, as they grilled me with similar questions. My responses circled back to my lifelong desire of becoming a firefighter and motive to serve. I shared my enthusiasm and my somewhat fabricated readiness for the role - spontaneous and unfiltered, without any real training in fire science. I was a healthy, eager 22-year-old, ready to learn and serve.
Somehow, I must have said the right things, or maybe they saw potential in me because shortly after, I was told I had passed the entry exam. The waiting game that followed was excruciating. Those days stretched on like years as I awaited the final decision on who would be hired.
During that waiting period, my life was simple. I lived in a modest one-bedroom home by the beach in La Conchita, where I'd spend my evenings after work surfing until the sun dipped below the horizon. After surfing, it was all about kicking back - grilling steaks, playing some drums, and just vibing out until it was time to crash. Rinse and repeat. It was a laid-back life, one that gave me plenty of time to think about the future and how much this opportunity could turn the tides for me.
Becoming a firefighter in Santa Barbara wasn't just about fulfilling a childhood dream. It was about embracing a life of service, stepping into a role where every day demanded discipline, courage and resilience. As I waited for that call, the possibility of wearing that uniform, of being part of something bigger than myself, felt closer than ever. And regardless of the outcome, I knew this journey was shaping the path I was meant to follow.
The very last and final stage of the firefighter entry test involved a mental health and physical examination. The doctor posed various questions, checked standard reflexes, and asked about any past surgeries. At the conclusion of the exam, he noted my facial and back acne as a potential issue. By age 22, my acne was not severe; I had experienced typical teenage acne during high school, but it was manageable. I suspected the doctor was trying to unsettle me when he mentioned, "this could disqualify you." Instead of arguing, I adopted a curious stance and asked, "Wow, that's unexpected. Could you explain how acne might impact my ability to fight fires?" His response was vague, suggesting it could worsen and potentially lead to a claim against the city. I dismissed his reasoning as nonsensical, smiled politely, and nodded. Inwardly, I thought he was either completely out of his fucking mind, a quack, or purposely trying to eliminate candidates from the process.
As the days stretched on anxiously awaiting, I finally received the call. "We've found you suitable for a Santa Barbara City firefighter," they said, and I was over the moon. Excited doesn't even begin to cover it. I was stoked, calling up my family and friends to share the big news: I got the job! My official start date was only a week away.
Walking into fire station headquarters on my first day as one of five new recruits, I felt a mix of nervous excitement and determination, knowing I was about to embark on one of the most challenging yet rewarding journeys of my life.