This bike is not, as they say, adult-sized.

I heard it in Crocodile Dundee’s voice: ‘That’s not a frying pan. This is a frying pan!”

Around 2nd and Constitution Ave, a worker fell into a hole. The Squad(s) and several other companies extricated the banged-up (but otherwise alright) patient in this fairly small construction site.

We came in one morning to find that not only had #2 run two fires (an apartment, and an upper floor off at St. Elizabeths Hospital), but they had burned clean through a section of supply line.

Firefighter Baldino says, “Safety First!”…especially on medical locals, haha.

The Great Race! These four pictures are from a competition posed between the Engine and the Squad. The challenge: Run a crosslay from the wagon to the back parking lot. Run back to the wagon, grab a rack, and extend the line out the gate to V St. First to call for water wins.

He almost had him, too. Our guy’s line got wedged under the metal gate in the parking lot, so he was hemmed up for a few seconds. Unfortunately, they were so neck-and-neck that a few seconds was all his competitor needed to pull ahead.

My tags: significantly more beat-up since the last time we saw them.

Yes, that’s right. The title says it all; not only have I completed my probation, but I’m willing to share all the stupid stuff I did while I was in that period. Some things are more serious than others, depending on where you’re assigned. Take each for what it’s worth to you.

While I was a Probationer/Rook/Sh*tbag/Stupid-ass Rookie/Probie/Hey-what’s-your-name/Dumbass-F*ckin’-Rookie-Paramedic, I have done all of the following:

• Fallen asleep at the watch desk, several times. These were all accidents, as I often tried to take multiple watches at night to help out the guys. Oops.
• Napped at work (yes, during the daytime. Sometimes I was sneaky when I was really exhausted.)
• Watched all sorts of TV before 8pm; when you’re deprived of it, it’s hard not to glance at it quickly while mopping the floor.
• Sat on the bench in front of the firehouse, usually a privilege reserved for those who have completed probation.
• Screwed around on YouTube, Facebook, Hulu, etc.—admittedly, it was often at the behest of coworkers, but sometimes it wasn’t.
• Washed my car in the middle of the day, ignoring the phone and everything else I was supposed to be doing. That was a total goof, as I guess I didn’t make the connection that I wasn’t allowed to do that yet. I figured it was okay if I did it quickly! Sorry ’bout that one.
• Removed, for whatever reason, my god-awful polyester shirt and red-tag combination that is the signature garb of a rookie. That particular article of clothing really, really sucks. Everyone finds their ways around it, no?

I’m sure there’s more; certainly that can’t be everything that happened between Academy graduation in early ’09 and now. However, I suppose it will suffice to bolster my list of pleasant memories from probation, of which there are (surprisingly) quite a few—once you figure it out, it’s actually not so bad.

But now that it’s over, I can’t help but think that it’s kind of like having a birthday: people ask you: “So, do you feel any different?”

The answer’s always the same: ehh, not really.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad it’s over, but as far as anything drastically changing? I’ll still study, and mop, and do dishes. I’m okay with that. It’s part of this job. I just have a few more freedoms now.

It’s been a good ride thus far, and I only see it getting better. Just another milestone…

—————

Edit: Since nobody reads the comments anyways, I’d like to bring an exchange between a commenter and myself into the body of the post. For anyone who seems to read this and think that I’m simply bragging about how little work I can get away with, you’re an idiot. I love my job and I’m proud to do it; the fact remains that everyone gets lazy about stuff, and when you condense almost two years of hard work into three hundred words, it’s going to sound worse than it really is. Come work in my firehouse with me, then you can run your mouth if you still want to.

Commenter:

“I don’t think i have ever heard of someone being so proud of not doing thier job. It is an unfortunate and more common thing these days form the “new guys”. You can never know enough about a job that will kill you. Keep your head in the game and stop feeling this sense of entitlement.”

(In case you were curious, all these spelling and grammar errors are verbatim.)

My reply:

“[name], I’m not proud of any of it. If you re-read the post closely, I’m neither praising nor feeling entitled about any of my actions; I believe you may have misinterpreted my writing. It’s simply a fact of human nature that throughout a year of walking inside the lines of my probationary rules, occasionally my foot will stumble outside the boundaries. It happens to everyone, but I’m willing to admit my faults and slip-ups because I’m not hiding the fact that I’m human and have the capacity to err. Your intentions in giving me advice sound pure, however, and for that I’m appreciative.

The “new guys” should never turn down sage advice form [sic] thier [sic] more senior members.”

A voice rang out from down the hallway, with it’s owner appearing around a corner seconds later.

“Hey! We’ve got a call near the Liffey!

Glenn turned his head from us and cursed quietly.

“Are we goin’ swimming?” he asked, tentatively.

“Nah, I don’t think so.”

Glenn’s head lolled back towards us with a sheepish grin.

“Oh, thank God for that. I’m on the back step tonight, and that river’s dirty as hell.”

Glenn Delves is 29 years old and has been with the Dublin Fire Brigade for seven years. Currently assigned to the Tara Street station (which also serves as Brigade headquarters during the the day), his role as a firefighter, paramedic, and swiftwater rescue technician is nothing unique to the 40-some other firefighters in the house with him.

“Oh yeah, we’re all paramedics… and it just makes sense for most of us to be SRTs, since the river is right nearby and we go in there pretty frequently for all sorts of stuff.”

Waitaminute, back up. Forty firefighters?

“It’s the biggest house in Dublin. Even after HQ shuts down for the day, we still have a lot of people here.”

Almost as if he anticipated the question (probably by the incredulous look on my face), he added:

“Oh, and kitchen duty is horrible.”

The tour of the firehouse was brief but fascinating. The station opened at the intersection of Tara and Pearse Streets was opened as DFB headquarters in April of 1908—the old brick watchtower still stands, and is a historically protected structure by the city of Dublin. Today, it exists as an open-air station with canopy covers for the apparatus and multiple floors for bunkrooms, the mess hall, administrative offices, and “Control Room” (the call-taking center for the entire city as well as many surrounding counties, staffed 24 hours a day by full-time Brigade personnel).

Unfortunately, our trip was cut short by Glenn and the rest of his crew headed out on calls—with approximately 133,000 calls annually, the Dublin Fire Brigade must balance the average 364 daily calls amongst twelve full-time (and three on-call or “retained”) stations. However, with locations like Tara Street staffing two engines, two ladder trucks, one tower ladder, two ambulances, a Haz-Mat Unit, and a District Officer, the workload seems pretty well spread-out.

It was a wonderful trip, and I can’t express my gratitude to the DFB enough. If there’s any Dublin Fire personnel reading this, I sincerely appreciate your hospitality and wish you all the best in your careers—take care and stay safe, brothers.

Oh, and if you ever need a place to crash in D.C., drop me a line and I’d be more than happy to help out.

/RL

Glenn Delves, a seven-year veteran of the Dublin Fire Brigade, opens compartments on the fire engine and describes the equipment contained within.

As Swiftwater Rescue Technicians (SRTs), the crews of the Tara Street station keep their river rescue gear ready on the apparatus at all times.

The Dublin Fire Brigade utilizes Dräger breathing apparatus; three SCBA packs line the rear wall of the bench seat for the firefighters “on the back step” for that shift.

I think it’s universal: DFB personnel dislike their ambulance rotations just as much as their American counterparts do, it seems.

(I can just hear Dave Dennis now: “That suck-ass rookie paramedic would go to an Irish firehouse and take pitchurrs of a ambalance!” Yep—go ahead, Dave, have your fun.)

This button from the DCFD Emerald Society is older than I am. There’s quite an impressive wall of patches just inside the entrance to the station—incidentally, one of Glenn’s coworkers is now the proud owner of a classic E26/T15 “Foghorn Leghorn” patch.

(I bet they hate the sound of their printer winding up, too.)

After Firefighter Delves (unfortunately) stated that he disliked his appointed nickname of “Glennsy,” the jokes compounded until his gear was permanently branded with “Glennsy Delvesy” in permanent marker. Much to his chagrin, he discovered it just as he was escorting these visitors through the facilities.

The distinctive markings on this helmet indicate the rank of “sub-officer;” personnel advance from Firefighter to Sub-Officer to Station Officer to District Officer and beyond, receiving increasing responsibilities with each promotion.

We arrived just in time for evening shift change, so we were witness to the daily equipment checks; it would appear that DFB ladder technicians get to ride in comfortable style while operating the turntable.

(I would be remiss if I didn’t include something about “raising” a “ladder”, no? Terrible joke, I’m sorry.) Both DFB aerial ladders within the Tara Street Station reach 100′ in the air when fully extended. “There aren’t too many high-rises throughout the city,” say Firefighter Delves, “but we’re downtown. The business district around us has the highest buildings you’ll see in Dublin.”

All hose carried on the apparatus is kept rolled. At a fire, the equivalent of the American lineman’s position would get off the piece, unroll a section of hose, connect a nozzle, and then advance to the structure; the Dublin Fire Brigade does not utilize pre-connected lines.

The DFB operates on a 39-hour work week, across four shifts (designated A through D). The spacious accommodations of Tara Street are more than enough to feed and house approximately forty personnel per shift, from firefighter through the on-duty District Officer.

—————

On a non-fire department note: a little bit later, I’ll add some pictures from the highlights of the remainder of my vacation. I know it’s not particularly relevant to RL as a whole, but it’s a beautiful country, and I would highly recommend Ireland for anyone who enjoys traveling.

I’ve just completed and uploaded my official submission for the Nikon Festival “A Day Through Your Lens” competition (this might explain the absence from blogging for a bit, eh?)

In keeping with contest rules, I’m not supposed to upload the video anywehere for public viewing except through the contest website, so I’ll just have to link it:

Twenty-Four Hours: A Day With Raising_Ladders

It was a hell of a project, but I’m glad to finally have it completed and sent in—now I can take a much-needed break from editing.

Thanks to everyone who helped, including my family, my friend/editor Sean, and the entire crew at E26 #2.

/RL

• You’re telling your friends where to meet up later that night, but directions to the bar include “it’s right near the hydrant on the southwest corner,” or “…it’ll be in the twelve-hundred-block of  Connecticut Ave.”

• “Yes, sir” has entered your everyday lexicon, even at home.

• Directions to your house have ended with the phrase “…to box.”*

• When a late-night phone call suddenly wakes you up, your legs swing out of bed and you fumble around in the dark for your boots. Oh wait… yep, I’m in my apartment. Dammit.

• When responding to even the simplest of questions, one must fight off the urge to recite what particular article, section, and sub-section the answer comes from in the Department Order Book.

• You have become very, very good at washing dishes.

• Between your name tag, Probationer tag, and your collar brass, various items get snagged or ripped off your uniform all the time. Thus, wearing any collared shirt at home has become an exercise in absent-mindedly touching your clothing to make sure everything is pinned on properly—and then realizing that you’re an idiot.

• While you’re running errands, the distinct ring of a multi-line phone system causes you to look around and think for a split second that you have to go answer it. You soon realize you’re in bank, or an office, or a restaurant.

• Similarly, you have an unexplainable urge to answer your cell phone within two rings.

—————

Note: The phrase “…to box” is a reference to the information book in the firehouse. If you flip it open and look up a certain box number in our response area, the directions read something like this:

Box 1234: Left on Smith Street, right on Jones Avenue, right on Davis Terrace to box.