A Fire Engineer drives the fire apparatus, s/he is responsible for getting the crew to the emergency location, also securing a water supply, pumping water to the fire, assisting with ladders and other fireground support activities centered around the apparatus. At a structure fire the engineer stays with the apparatus while the captain and firefighter size up the situation, assign incoming apparatus, and enter the building to extinguish the fire. This engineer was exactly what you'd picture when you think of a firefighter: confident, professional, yet incredibly personable. He took me on a tour of the station - showed me the food lockers, the upstairs dorm and downstairs offices, the fire poles we'd be sliding down, the fire apparatus, engines, trucks, equipment, and all the gear stashed in the compartments. He was filling me in on everything I'd eventually need to know, making sure I got the lay of the land.
Then, suddenly, four bells rang out - a loud urgent four bell ring, DING, DING, DING, DING. Twice it rang in series, DING, DING, DING, DING. It was an alarming and immediate call to action, and every firefighter sprang into motion. The adrenaline in the room spiked as everyone raced to their apparatus, jumping into their boots, pulling up their turnout pants and suspenders over their day uniform, donning their turnout jackets. All ears tuned in to the dispatch, everyone hopping onto their rig. They were prepped and ready to find out where the problem was, what type of emergency was in progress. Me? I was brand new, not qualified to even step foot on a truck. My training was just beginning.
Over the next two weeks, my education in firefighting was hands-on and intensive. I traveled across 7 stations in the city, station to station, each day under the guidance of a different fire captain. These seasoned veterans of firefighting shared their knowledge generously, schooling me in the practical and critical aspects of the job. They offered advice, doled out tasks, and sternly pointed out what not to do.
Each station had its own vibe, its own set of rules, and its own crew of experienced firefighters, most of them ready to take the new guy under their wing. Some were not so friendly, some were downright rude and treated me like a pain in the ass, a single-cell life form. The fire captains, each with their own style and wisdom, painted a vivid picture of the life and responsibilities of a firefighter. Through these interactions, I began to understand the weight of the badge I was striving to earn - the commitment to helping people, the importance of teamwork, and the physical and mental toughness required.
This whirlwind of training was more than just learning new things; it was a rite of passage. It was here, amidst the sound of alarms and the rush of engines, that I started transforming from a clueless newcomer to a member of a brotherhood bound by the mission to protect and serve. As I absorbed lessons from these firefighting professionals, I not only learned about the tools of the trade but also about the spirit of sacrifice that defines the best of the best.
Looking back, those first few weeks were a blur of excitement, nerves, and a steep learning curve. Every day brought new challenges and new stories, embedding in me a deep respect for the profession and opportunity I had been given. As I made my rounds through all seven stations in Santa Barbara City, I was slowly but surely becoming part of a community, a family who had welcomed me into their ranks. It was the beginning of a journey I had dreamed of since childhood, now unfolding with each ringing alarm and every slide down the pole.
After two weeks I was officially assigned to Station One, downtown Fire Headquarters. This was where I'd start my real journey as a firefighter on Squad 1.
For those not well-versed in the workings of the fire service, the organization and language can be a bit complex. At our station, the Truck Crew was made up of two vehicles: the Squad and the Ladder Truck. Which vehicle responded to a call, Truck or Squad, depended on the specifics of the situation. Depending on what was needed - either firefighting or technical rescue such as a vehicle rollover - we'd jump on the appropriate apparatus as directed by the dispatcher.
The Engine crew, on the other hand, would always jump on the Engine, which is typically responsible for pumping water at a fire, carrying water, hoses, and other fire fighting equipment. Meanwhile, the Rescue crew, also part of the Truck Crew, often responded alone in a Rescue vehicle, primarily for medical emergencies.
Overall, our team comprised 10 fire personnel who would respond using four pieces of apparatus. The standard crew configuration required at least three fire personnel on any given apparatus, a three person crew, except for the Rescue unit which was staffed by one captain and one firefighter.
Since those days, a lot has changed within the fire service. Today, fire stations often operate with minimal manpower, which in my view, leads to overwork and stretches resources thin. The dynamics and demands of the job have evolved, placing even greater pressures on today's firefighters.
My role at first was straightforward: observe and do as directed. It might sound simple, but let me tell you, the adrenaline of the actual job is something else entirely.
The very first call I responded to? It's etched in my memory - a reported structure fire at a hotel right on the beach. The dispatch blared through the speakers: "701, Truck one, Engine One, Engine Two, Engine Six, respond to a structure fire..." The urgency in that message had everyone springing into action, and there I was, witnessing the choreographed elegance for the first time.
Another firefighter on the squad who had been around for a bit over a year, looked over at me. The guy was massive, six-four and built like a tank - he looked like a professional athlete. His eyes sparkled with excitement as he gave me a "giddy up" gesture with both arms and thumbs up! It was contagious, and even as the FNG, I felt that rush of excitement pulsing through me.
We arrived at the scene, hearts pounding, ready to face whatever awaited us. But it turned out to be anticlimactic - no smoke, no fire, just a lot of confused faces. Our captain stepped out, asked us to hang back, and then walked over to talk to someone from the hotel. After a brief 5-second exchange, he figured out it was a false alarm - maybe a faulty sensor or someone messing around with the fire alarm system. He called all incoming engines off by reducing everyone to code 2 (no lights or sirens), indicating it was nothing serious but come on in until he verified there's no issue.
Later in my career, that fire captain left the department to pursue a different career. A few years afterward, he came back, reapplied for a firefighter position, and was rehired, undergoing the entire rookie process from scratch as an entry-level firefighter. Over time, he was promoted through the ranks again, successfully passing each exam to become an engineer and then a captain once more. He was a truly remarkable individual.
Even though it was a false alarm, the thrill of responding to the call was undeniable. We were all amped up as we climbed back onto the rig and returned to the station, ready for whatever came next. This cycle of readiness and response quickly became a part of daily life at the station.
Station One, being the main station downtown, was a hive of activity. On any given shift, we could receive anywhere from five to ten emergency calls, of course most calls were medical emergencies or auto accidents. Between calls, our days were filled with the routine maintenance of the station - washing and waxing rigs, cleaning toilets, mopping floors, washing walls and ceilings, and studying various firefighting techniques and protocols. Every task, no matter how mundane, was punctuated by the possibility of the next call, which could come at any moment.
In 1976, smoke detectors were not yet commonly used in homes or businesses, leading to several small to large structure fires. At that time, the primary method for alerting the fire department to a fire involved a city-wide fire alarm pull box system, which was installed at hundreds of intersections throughout the city. While this system was beneficial in the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s, by the mid-1970s, it had become a frequent target for false alarms, often triggered by pranksters at 3 AM.
This constant state of alertness mixed with regular duties created a unique work environment where every day brought new challenges and learning opportunities. The reality of being a firefighter meant that you always had to be prepared, both mentally and physically, for whatever situation might arise, false or real. It wasn't just about fighting fires; it was about being a dependable part of a team that the community relied on for safety and assistance.
The mix of adrenaline-filled emergencies and the disciplined routine of station upkeep was exhilarating. It was in this environment that I began to truly understand the depth of my role. Each call, whether a heart-pounding rush to a potential fire or a routine check following a false alarm, was a chance to make a difference, to stay sharp, and to be part of the vital fabric that held the city's safety net together.
Being stationed at Station One was an incredible introduction to the life of a firefighter. The blend of action and anticipation kept me on my toes, ensuring that no two days were ever the same. It was here, among seasoned professionals and frantic false alarms, that I grew from a novice, simply following orders, to an integral part of the firefighting team. Each shift was a lesson in responsibility, teamwork, and the unpredictable nature of emergency response, which only deepened my commitment and passion for this work.
At that time, the dispatcher was based at Station One. The 911 emergency system was introduced in California in 1972, and by 1976, all emergency calls were routed to a single dispatcher on duty at Station One. When the dispatcher took breaks or meals, a firefighter would temporarily take over.
The dispatch system used was an outdated trunk line style, reminiscent of the 1940s.It would be several more years before the system was updated to a more modern setup. Since the system couldn't differentiate emergency calls by station location or district, all seven stations were alerted to every emergency. Crews would gear up and stand by their equipment, waiting to see if they were needed. Often, they would gear up in anticipation of action, only to learn they were not needed and return to bed. In the world of firefighting, the shifts you work can say a lot about you - or at least, that's the impression you might get when you're new to the firehouse. In my experience, each shift, labeled A, B, and C shift, seemed to have developed its own distinct character over the years, almost as if each group was a cast of characters in a long-running play.
I landed on C shift, which had a reputation for being the laid-back crew. The general vibe was that firefighting was a serious business, sure, but life didn't stop at the station. A few on C shift were the entrepreneurial type; the kind of folks who'd start a side hustle when off-duty. For instance, if someone was good at building fences, they wouldn't just stop with their own backyard - they'd set up a business, hire a crew, and make an extra buck. It was common to hear someone referred to as "a C shifter," a term that carried a hint of casual professionalism mixed with a knack for life beyond the fire station.
Then there was B shift - these were the hard chargers. To describe them as intense would be an understatement. They were the embodiment of the kick-ass, take-names ethos, and they all loved John Wayne. B shifters were all in, 100% dedicated to firefighting, and they didn't waste their time creating an off-duty business, no matter the lack of income. They managed their finances in ways that kept them from needing to run a side business, embodying a fierce dedication to their roles as firefighters.
A shift, on the other hand, was a whole different story. They were often teased by the other shifts as the prima donnas of the firehouse. Known for walking around with a rag in their pocket, they gave off the impression they were always busy, always on the move - but according to the playful jabs from B and C shifts, they hardly did much at all. This banter, though, was all in good spirits. In reality all shift personnel were 100% dedicated, prepared and ready to face whatever came their way.
One popular out of state Fire Chief was quoted jokingly at a conference one time as saying "I'd rather have a sister who was a whore, than a brother on B Shift." Of course this was meant in jest, and at a time when you could actually tell a joke without being canceled by a special interest group, and perhaps fired for it.
Despite these comical stereotypes, every firefighter, regardless of their shift, maintained a high level of professionalism. The camaraderie and endless jesting among us never undercut the seriousness with which everyone took their duties. The joking was just part of how we bonded and kept the atmosphere in the firehouse light, a necessary counterbalance to the often grim realities of our job.
Joking around the fire station was a common practice. When a battalion chief, known for his strictness, punished his crew because a firefighter was caught fraternizing with his girlfriend at the station, he soon stumbled upon a bobby pin and a half pint of whisky strategically placed in the utility closet as a prank. The chief would erupt in anger, only to later realize that he had been pranked with those items.
That being said, the firehouse wasn't without its share of hot heads and overflowing egos. I once greeted a fellow firefighter with a casual "hey buddy, what's up?" only to be met with a stone-cold "I'm not your buddy." He wasn't joking. Next thing I knew, we were both in the chief's office, facing a review for what they called poor behavior or some similar bullshit. It felt like I was back in junior high, squaring off against some bully in the alley after school.
Eventually, just like back in those schoolyard days, we managed to shake hands. Over the years, we even reached a point where we could tolerate each other's company. It's a testament to how complex group dynamics can be within a fire station. When you have the wrong mix of personalities forced to work together, it can really shake up the team harmony.
Managing these dynamics across all seven stations required a kind of administrative finesse, almost an art form, to ensure everyone could coexist and operate effectively without constant friction. It's a delicate balance, maintaining peace and professionalism in such an intense work environment.
The culture within the fire department was rich and complex, woven through with these narratives of shift identities, and it added a layer of human depth to the job that went beyond just responding to emergencies. It shaped how we interacted, how we tackled challenges together, and how we viewed our time both on and off duty.
Sharing old stories at the firehouse was a common way to pass time once all the chores were done. One particular story that always stuck with me involved a battalion chief known for his temper. He once returned to the station and found his parking spot occupied, prompting him to furiously kick a pile of boxes that had been temporarily placed there. Unknown to him, those boxes contained leaking sticks of dynamite, awaiting disposal. Many still laugh about the incident today, but it's astonishing to think how lucky he was that the dynamite didn't explode and cause serious injury.
Reflecting on all of this during my early days was both enlightening and amusing. It underscored the diversity of personalities and approaches within a single firehouse and highlighted how these differences could coexist to create a dynamic, effective team. The endless jokes and ribbing were not just about passing time - they were integral to building trust and brotherhood among us, as well as firing those who might not fit. Some couldn't follow directions, while others didn't stick around because they failed their 6 month or 1 year exams and probationary period.
Not every emergency call we responded to allowed for light-hearted reflections. The second call I attended stripped away any humor from our daily interactions, reminding us of the stark realities and dangers of our chosen profession. It was a far cry from the joking and camaraderie back at the station, showcasing the unpredictable and often harsh nature of the work. Each call provided a new experience, a new challenge, and continued to build our resilience and unity as a team.
The alarm blared in the dead of the night, pulling me from sleep with a jolt. I want to say it was around two or three in the morning when it went off. I was on the squad, and we were responding to a vehicle accident with reported injuries. It was one of those calls that etches itself into your memory with stark, unyielding clarity.
We sped toward the location, just off Highway 101. As we approached the scene, something seemed off. Scanning the area, there appeared to be no car in sight - at least, not in the way you'd expect at an accident scene. But then, a short distance away, maybe about 20-30 yards in the distance, the mystery began to unravel in the most horrific way. There, scattered across the highway scene in the middle of the night, was the fragmented chassis of a vehicle, just the metal frame and nothing else. The front end of the car was one place, the back end another. The vehicle had literally come apart in pieces.
As we absorbed the scene, questions mounted. Where were the occupants? The scene was eerily void of people other than the first arriving unit, and the odor distinctive of oil and gasoline saturated soil. Soon, the first-in crew, who had arrived before us and called for backup, shared the grim details. They explained that the driver of the car, a Corvette, had been traveling a high rate of speed - likely over 120 miles an hour - the driver with two high school girls he'd picked up from their prom earlier in the evening. My first thought was that 3 people in a vette must have been pretty cramped. He apparently lost control and the car had wrapped around a tree with such force that it disintegrated upon impact. The fiberglass body was nowhere to be found, only a classic corvette emblem on the ground lay as identification of the vehicle.
The devastation was total. The wheels and tires, axles and engine were strewn down the road several hundred feet, far from the initial point of impact. The driver had miraculously been ejected from the back of the vehicle and was severely injured, hurried away by an earlier emergency services ambulance before we arrived, suspected of driving drunk. The fate of the two girls was far grimmer; their bodies were found trapped together in a four inch space between the chassis and the tree, their lives cruelly snatched away in an instant. The reality set in: there was no chance of survival, the scene was a recovery, not a rescue.
As we waited for a tow truck to arrive, the gravity of the situation hung over us heavily. When the tow truck finally managed to winch the chassis apart from the tree, the grim truth revealed itself fully. The girls were compressed into a space so small, so constricted, it was hard to comprehend. I was tasked with an unimaginable duty - to retrieve their bodies. Handling their remains was surreal, like lifting a mass of heavy wet towels; there was no structure, hardly recognizable as being human.
Once we had carefully placed their bodies in the coroner's separate body bags, the coroner took over, and we collected whatever was left at the scene before heading back to the station. By then, it was early morning, around six or seven AM. Back at the station, news of the call had already spread among my colleagues. Their expressions as they looked at me said it all - they knew it had been one of those gruesome calls.
We gathered in the dining room, their eyes filled with a mix of concern and the unspoken understanding of what we sometimes face. "Wow, are you okay?" they asked, although in our line of work, you shrug off the weight of such experiences, at least outwardly. "Yeah, I'm alright," I replied, trying to deflect the concern with a semblance of normalcy, despite the lingering images of the night's horrors.
"I'll just try to forget about it and move on," I told them, even as the impact of the incident lingered silently within me. I had some breakfast, continuing the routine, continuing the facade of resilience. "Yeah, it was a messy call," I admitted, the reality of the job washing over me anew as I prepared to head home, to try and find some rest after a night that exemplified the brutal, often hidden aspects of a firefighter's life.
I went home that day, grappling with the aftermath of the grueling scene I had just witnessed. As a rookie firefighter only a few weeks into my job, living alone and single, the full weight of my experiences hadn't yet sunk in. The days following were a blur; I found myself aimlessly wandering around my backyard, considering various home improvement projects to distract myself, yet oblivious to the severity of the traumatic events I had encountered.
The unfortunate reality of those girls and their families' suffering hadn't fully registered with me yet. Over time, as I continued my on-the-job training, I became restless. Firefighting isn't always back-to-back action; there are plenty of downtimes, lots of maintenance tasks, and endless cleaning. As the weeks stretched into months, I began to wonder what lay ahead in my career, yet eager to learn more and face new challenges.
Fast forward six months, and I was teetering on the edge of passing my first 6-month probation period by the narrowest of margins. This period included a crucial exam, a daunting task that required me to memorize every street in the city of Santa Barbara - where each street started, ended, and everything in between. It was a Herculean mental task, given the hundreds of streets crisscrossing the city. Failing this test meant dismissal, a brutal end to my fledgling firefighting career. But that wasn't all; the probation also included written tests, and crucially, a driving test.
I had about six driver-training sessions with the Master Mechanic, learning to drive a fire truck - an old Crown with a stick shift, requiring double clutching. It was exhilarating yet challenging; the truck was massive, and every gear shift had to be flawless to avoid grinding the gears into oblivion.
On the day of my six month exam, while I was deep in concentration during my street test in the TV day room, the training officer burst in. "Drop everything you've got, come with me," he ordered. I followed him immediately, leaving everything and all my materials behind. At the truck, he instructed me to get in the driver's seat while he took the passenger seat. He began quizzing me on every part of the dashboard - its functions and operations. We walked around the rig as I answered every question about its features and operation. We got back in the rig "Start the rig," he commanded, and I complied. Then he asked to see my driver's license.
"Oh, hang on a minute, I need to grab it from the day room," I told him. He gave me a peculiar look but nodded for me to proceed. I shut off the rig, retrieved my license from the day room, and returned to start the truck again. We then took a driving test around the city. It seemed to go well; I followed his instructions to the letter, and there were no noticeable issues. I returned to complete my street test, somewhat relieved but still anxious about the outcome.
The next day, word had spread like wildfire through the station. "Yeah, he failed his rookie test," I overheard, the words cutting deeper each time. That afternoon, I was summoned to the fire chief's office. The atmosphere was heavy as I walked in. The fire chief sat me down with a stern look and asked, "Hey, Paul, I hear you failed your test. What happened?"
I stood there in disbelief as the words hit me. Apparently the chief training officer failed my driver's test because I didn't have my drivers license on me when he asked for it. I did have it but needed to retrieve it from another room. It didn't matter; his decision was final. I felt like my entire world had collapsed. My career, my dreams, everything seemed to have slipped through my fingers in that single, heart-stopping moment. I was now effectively unemployed, my aspirations of being a firefighter hanging by a thread.
I explained the situation to the chief, my voice a mix of frustration and disappointment. To my surprise, the chief leaned back in his chair and after a brief pause, he declared, "Bullshit." He continued, "We've spent six months training you and other than that very minor oversight I don't see this as a fireable offense." He revealed that he had already discussed the matter with the training officer and he had decided to give me another chance. Relief washed over me like a cold shower; I was stunned yet profoundly grateful. "But let this be a wake-up call," he added, ensuring the gravity of the situation wasn't lost on me.
Thanks to the fire chief's grace, I was given a second shot at proving myself. Energized by this unexpected turn of events. Life in the fire service is never static, and soon an opportunity arose that would shift my trajectory once more.