On Saturday's fire class we faced our first actual fires, first in a flashover simulator and later in the burn building. In the latter scenario we advanced an attack line into a room equipped with a device that is essentially a monstrous gas grill, capable of creating an impressive column of flame. In complete SCBA, and hauling hose on our hands and knees, it made for bruising work. Each of us took a chance at managing the nozzle and attacking the fire. Despite the protective properties of my gear, I was feeling quite toasty when I came in close proximity to the flames. Yet our instructors assured us that at 400°F, this was a mere cool breeze.

When I told my mom about the day, I emphasized what an interesting and unparalleled experience it was to experience fire safely in such close proximity. I often tend to couch my descriptions of the class in these terms to assuage her belief that my interest in firefighting represents a lunatic fringe element of my personality that will surely kill me eventually. I'm subtly implying that all this is purely academic, and not something I'm likely to employ in the real world. My mom is a smart woman, but she goes along with it for the most part. I think she knows that deep down I still most love the ambulance, and that a fire will never quite compare with a person in need. I'll put my time in on the heavy rescue squad, but I'm EMS at heart.

Nonetheless, one of my mom's first question was whether I got burned in the exercise. I think she has this idea that the fire fighting instructors hand the trainees a hose, light up a huge inferno in front of us, and stand behind us screaming through bullhorns Get over there and put that fire out! What are you waiting for?! You want to be a fire fighters, start acting like them!! In fact, the fastest way to get yelled at on the training ground is by doing something that could conceivably endanger yourself or another person in a real fire.

Having managed to avoid most service-industry jobs in my employment history, I am not accustomed to being yelled at. My parents did not believe screaming was an effective motivational tool, so there is little to prepare me for being the object of high-decibel verbal invective. Thus far I've managed to dodge the bullet, but it can only be a matter of time before I screw up something and get reamed.

When it happens, I will tolerate it, just like I tolerate the many strange, personality-discordant realities of the fire and rescue world. Like the fact that I have a rank. Or that I will shout out "yes, sir!" to my superior officer in a faux-military bellow when I'm on the review line in fire class. Or the idea that I would presume to be a fire fighter at all. Or the fact that my life routinely comes in collision with moments in others' lives that will forever be remembered by them as personal disasters, and yet I emerge mostly unharmed by the conflagration.

I had in my mind this heroic image of fire fighters advancing hose line into a burning home, moving as one body low to the ground, like a ferocious animal. When I see films of fire fighters, they seem barely encumbered by their gear or the hose. Having handled various hose lines in class, I have begun to perceive the fallacy of this ideal. The water alone in a charged 50 ft. section of hose weighs a considerable amount (8 pounds/gallon); whenever the nozzle is open, the kickback force can make holding onto the nozzle a desperate struggle. You cannot let go; flailing lines have killed people.

A small line with relatively low pressure is manageable by one person, but not optimal. When we individually tried out larger-diameter hoses at higher pressures, it was all I could do to maintain control of the line. This is where sheer mass comes in handy -- an endowment I lack. Generally, it's better to have multiple people controlling the line, each with feet and shoulders positioned to support the person ahead.

There is something powerful in the sensation of holding a charged line, and it has little to do with the phallic outpouring of fluid. It's the feeling of the people behind you, braced against you and low to the ground, who will not let you fall back.