May 13, 2025. I was working Engine 1 overtime with the regular driver and an OT skipper. We had a normal day, running our typical calls in the downtown district. But once nighttime rolled around, we found ourselves with an unusual pause on responses for a few hours.
Everyone on this job can predict one of two things will happen after a gap in calls like this — a sudden flood of emergencies or the “big one.”
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The smoke check that wasn’t — yet
The call that broke the silence was for a smoke check near Knudsen and Blosser. We spent a few minutes looking around the general area, and after seeing no sign of fire, we returned to quarters.
The next call was a medical emergency just a few blocks east. We assisted the patient to the stretcher and went on our way. Out of abundance of caution, we drove by the smoke check location one more time. There was no smoke, so again, we drove back to quarters.
I headed to the bunkroom to get some rest. Every night, I say a quick prayer along the lines of “Please watch over my kids and my wife. Keep them safe.” I said it twice before drifting off to sleep.
Not more than two minutes later, we had a call: “Engines 1, 2, 4, 6, Truck 1, Battalion 2, Commercial structure fire. Knudsen and Blosser,” announced the electronic voice over the speakers.
I felt this one was real even before popping out of bed.
Initial plan of attack
Halfway there, we had smoke showing.
We were going to lay a supply line from the street but elected to go straight in and have second due supply us.
We parked plenty far from the building’s collapse zone and stopped in line with the loading dock, which had five roll-up doors. Smoke was light to moderate, pushing from the door to the west.
I hopped out of the cab, grabbed my SCBA and turned around to get another quick view of the building before I stretched a line. It was extremely dark out, and the barrage of red lights flooding the area made it hard to get a good read of the building.
A few things went through my mind at this point: We didn’t have a secure water supply, and we had to coordinate our attack with the truck that was doing forcible entry for us.
Once that truck pulled up, I grabbed one of our 2½-inch lines and stretched toward the loading dock.
I told my captain that we should get one of the roll-up doors open before we commit to anything so we could get a look inside. He agreed and spoke with the truck officer. The plan was to have their crew open the door while we sized-up an adjacent access point.
Sizing-up the structure
The walkway I found was about 20 feet long and 3½ feet wide with an incline ramp of 15 degrees. As I walked up the ramp, I noticed there were a few holes in the floor, enough to step into. We made note of that and watched our footing.
A few feet inside there was a metal door partially hanging off the frame. I easily ripped it off the frame and tossed it outside the building so we had a clear path for access forward. Once I moved that door, there were three more doors at the end of the hallway: To my right was an open door that led to the loading dock, an inward-swinging door straight ahead of me that was locked, and a door to my left appeared to be nailed shut.
Inside the loading dock, we could see larger interior part of the building was at least the size of a large grocery store. It had zero contents inside of it. No forklift, no boxes, nothing.
Finding the fire
There was a light smoke condition toward the ceiling but nothing pressurized or indicating there was active fire within our line of sight. The fire was lurking somewhere inside this place. The only active turbulent smoke I saw was from the floor, which was directly underneath the two closed interior doors, indicating a subfloor or a raised foundation. There was an opening about 8 inches in height and 3½ -feet wide that was pushing out smoke and heat — and that’s where I thought the fire was.
I went outside the walkway to find my captain and told him where I thought the fire was. He radioed the IC about our plan of attack.
Before I went back inside, I decided to mask up as I walked up the ramp.
I took the ax out of my scabbard. One of the truck firefighters was near me in the loading dock area. We quickly came up with a plan to open the floor where I was standing so we could get water into the area where the heat was. I was going to start opening the floor while he ran to get a chainsaw.
My captain was behind me with the thermal imaging camera and confirmed the heat’s location coming from the right corner of the raised floor area. He too was masking up but was still at the entrance, about 20 feet behind me.
The attack line was on the ground to my right, and I picked it up to shoot about 15 seconds of water before shutting down. The smoke lessened a bit but was still pumping out of that corner.
Everything went lights out
I was confident the fire was under the floor where I was now chopping with my ax. The heat and smoke kept pushing from that same right corner of the raised decking. The first two hits into the decking were going through. I thought I might get this open before the saw shows up.
On the third swing into the wooden floor, everything went lights out. Total darkness. I paused. I heard a thunderous boom in the distance, now echoing through the interior of the loading dock.
What had happened? Did I mess up? Did I hit a tank of some sort?
A violent, turbulent rush of air blew my direction, almost knocking me off my feet. The pressure forced my helmet backwards, and my mask became noticeably tighter on my face.
“What the hell is going on?!” is what I remember yelling through my facepiece, over and over again.
It sounded like a freight train. Deafening. I couldn’t hear a thing. An orange glow covered my mask. It’s warmer now. My entire lens was a foggy orange, and it was getting brighter on my right side.
I put my ax back in my scabbard and started inching my way in the direction I believed was outside.
In that moment, three things crossed my mind:
- I must keep moving. My kids and wife need me.
- This sounds exactly like the Boyd Street explosion in Los Angeles.
- I’m probably going to die.
I was pissed off that I was going to either get burned alive or caught in a collapse, so I kept moving, every step feeling like I was crawling on my hands and knees the length of a football field.
Then I remembered to shuffle my feet so I wouldn’t land in those holes I had passed earlier.
I was alone. Nobody was coming for me. I had to fight. Emotionally, I went numb. I pushed forward. Do or die.
Finding my way out
My facepiece hit the wall leading to the exit. I turned left, still blinded by the orange and black swirl all around me. The air pressure was still trying to force my helmet off my head, but the chinstrap secured it in place. I felt tapping all over my body, like pellets of rocks flying through the air. I later learned this was burning polyurethane foam.
I took a few more steps and stumbled down to the base of the loading dock. I’m looking down the entire time just like I was taught in my hotshot days. I was operating entirely on touch and rapid-fire prayers.
I took a few more steps and stumbled down to the base of the loading dock. I’m looking down the entire time just like I was taught in my hotshot days. I was operating entirely on touch and rapid-fire prayers.
From relief to panic and back again
I could now hear the guys yelling along with the increasing sound of air horns blasting the evacuation signal. The smoke lifted enough to see what I walked through — 40 feet of flames and boiling black smoke shooting from the doorway.
But wait, where was my skipper? My captain was right behind me the last I saw. So many thoughts raced through my mind: There’s nothing but fire blowing out of the doorway I just came from. He’s burning! I must’ve walked past him!
I lunged forward and yanked the 2½-inch line outside so I could start flowing water. No other hoselines were in operation yet.
The solid stream didn’t make a dent. I whipped the nozzle around the door opening to rain water down on what I thought was skipper’s last known position.
“He’s OK,” I heard someone say. “Where is he?” I yelled back. “Right there!” he sharply replied.
And sure enough, there he was, holding his helmet by his side, talking on the radio. He didn’t look injured, just shocked about whatever had just occurred.
I was so relieved. I couldn’t move. I could only stare at the fire blowing out of this warehouse as the smoke swirled around me.
I knelt on the 2½-inch line as it was flowing water and took a short pause. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and said, “God. Thank you, God! Thank you so much.”
My body shook for about 30 seconds. I took another deep breath while being dwarfed under the cloud of fire and volcanic, dense smoke and resumed my duties.
The fight was on for the next three hours.
“I thought you were dead”
About 15 minutes later, I put the nozzle down and took a break from the fight. Part of me wanted to simply walk down the street and not come back. I was numb, scared and mad this just happened to me and my guys. I felt like quitting. Quitting, however, meant the fire won — along with whomever or whatever caused the fire — so I got my crap back together.
What just happened to us was sinking in, and I needed to take a minute to collect my thoughts and see my skipper.
I walked over to him as he was kneeling near the tailboard of our engine. I was emotionally drained and was just so happy to see him.
“I’m happy you’re alive, Cap.” I told him with a deep sense of humility. “I thought you were dead,” he replied.
My stomach dropped to my ankles. I had no idea guys thought I was dead or trapped in there. All they saw was the 2½-inch line I stretched in the hallway and 30 seconds later fire and angry smoke blew out of the door. That bothered me.
Straight to my wife
The next morning when I was heading home, I went straight to my kids’ school where my wife also teaches. I don’t remember driving there — just arriving.
Once I parked, I called a retired fire captain I knew from church. I just wanted to start the process of connecting with someone on the faith side who could understand what I was feeling.
We talked for five minutes and I then made my way toward my wife’s class where she happened to be outside. I got within 20 feet of her and suddenly felt both extremely emotional and empty.
“How bad was it?” she asked. I had sent her a selfie early that morning in the cab of E1 to let her know I was still alive. “Some of us almost didn’t make it out.” I replied.
We embraced but I could feel her pulling away from me to look at my face. In 15 years of knowing my wife, this was the first time she could tell from my tone of voice that this was a true close call —the closest she came to not having me around anymore. We hugged, I cried. I told her I loved her and to have a good day. I just needed to see her.
It’s still a struggle
Over a year later, it’s still a struggle. Thankfully, learning from peer support and department workshops, I have my own personal checklist of healthy outlets to help me move through the dark moments: music, gardening, journaling, driving down the freeway with the windows down and the tunes up, working out, to name just a few. It helps.
I can’t help the dark dreams that keep generating in my sleep, placing me back into that narrow hallway. The sound of the roaring freight train of fire erupting around us is something I’ll never forget. In other dreams I see the visual of a jet engine at full throttle blasting flames toward me as I lean into the blast zone with my hands at my side. I don’t wake up panicked or in a cold sweat. I wake up with a mental plan to engage in some therapy throughout the day.
There have been several shifts where we run calls in the area of the fire — it always stirs up anxiety and emotions. I have learned to calmly breathe as part of my routine to settle my nerves and organize my thoughts.
One night I was out to dinner with friends when the same warehouse caught fire. I was scared for the crew, glued to my phone for more information. The fire had started in the same hallway/office area where I had been, and a defensive mode was declared. Thankfully, no one was hurt and the fire was out in short order.
My advice to you
Several people have asked me what I learned from the experience. Here’s what I can offer:
- Share your experiences to better those around you.
- Establish good communication with your crews.
- Control the doors. To the credit of classes I’ve taken and my years into the job, I kept the other two doors shut which otherwise might have led to more extreme conditions and perhaps a worse outcome for myself and my guys.
- Breed good culture.
- WEAR ALL YOUR GEAR! Had I not masked up when I did or not worn all my gear properly, you wouldn’t be reading this today. I’m certain of that. Mask up even when you don’t think it’s necessary.
- Watch out for each other. Find out what resources and programs are available to your department for those who need help after tough calls. It starts with being a friend first, not being a boss.
- Love your family. Kiss your kids and your spouse before leaving for the firehouse. Love always finds a way to ground us and show what’s important.
What happened next
Since writing the first draft of this article, I made the important decision to attend the IAFF Center of Excellence for Behavioral Health Treatment and Recovery to manage my PTSD from the incident. This life-changing opportunity guided me down a path of enlightenment and offered a level of peer support that I have never experienced. I plan to share more about my time there in a follow-up article soon.
