When I was a senior in high school, I knew exactly what I was going to be when I grew up. I had all my paperwork done to join the Army Special Forces (18X). They have this special program where they take people straight off the street who want to be SF and get them on track from day one. It was a dream I’d been working on since I was about seven years old. I’d take freezing cold baths to prepare myself for Navy SEAL BUDS (Basic Underwater Demolition School), and I even made my own homemade ghillie suit using secondhand army uniforms, camouflage burlap, and a hot glue gun so I could dominate anyone on the paintball field. I had a stack of military sniper books that I practically memorized. Needless to say, I had my whole future planned.
People talked to me about going to college to play baseball. I was the varsity catcher, and I’d been playing since I was about three years old. But baseball wasn’t my calling. The military was.
Just a few weeks before graduation, I was finishing up my paperwork for the medical side of the recruitment process when they flagged me as unfit for the position I was aiming for because of an autoimmune disorder I’d had for about six years by then. No matter what kind of waiver or exemption I tried to get, Raynaud’s Syndrome and Mixed Connective Tissue Disease shut the door on my dreams. I was crushed. I had to figure out something new, but what that was… I had no clue. I was completely lost, sad, and scared about my future.
A few weeks after graduation, I was driving past my local volunteer fire department and saw a sign saying they were accepting applications. On a whim, I decided to finally stop by the Mason County Fire District #18 Station out at Lake Cushman in Hoodsport, Washington. When I got there, I met the Chief and Assistant Chief, who were standing around the bright red trucks (and one odd yellow one), talking about something. I was hesitant to even say anything—I was pretty shy back then, which I know is hard for anyone to believe now. But they got me to talk, and I actually told them I was interested in volunteering. Their next question for me was, “Do you wanna go on a fireboat?” I had no idea that was even an option, so I replied with an enthusiastic “Absolutely!” We headed to the lake to get some time on the water.
We arrived at the north end of Lake Cushman, a lake about 10 miles long. We walked down the dock to this moored, bright red, Vietnam-style landing craft with a massive motor and pump in the middle. It was seriously impressive. We fired it up and headed out on the lake, enjoying the sunshine and the slow puttering of this vintage landing craft. Then… the infamous Motorola Minitor 2 started beeping. I had no idea what was happening, but just like that, we were on our way to a medical call—on the boat! It was incredible. We ended up running three calls from the boat that day, all near or on the water on that busy summer Saturday morning. Needless to say, I was hooked.
By the end of that day, I’d filled out my application and submitted it. They said they’d get me on the roster and get me trained up. This was back in the days before fire academies were required, so they handed me my turnout gear, rubber boots, a bright yellow helmet, a pager, and a green rotating light for my car (which, let’s be real, didn’t help me get anywhere any faster). I spent hours putting on my gear as fast as possible, then went home and practiced doing the same. Pretty soon, the jokes started rolling in from a guy nicknamed “Woody,” and the volunteers, most of whom were at least 20 years older than me, nicknamed me “Doogie” after the young doctor from Doogie Howser, M.D. That nickname stuck.
After my initial training, I went home and was still just an 18-year-old kid who didn’t know much about life, sitting in my mom’s living room, munching on raw Top Ramen. Then all of a sudden… BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP! I had no idea what the call was; hell, I didn’t even know what was beeping at first. All I knew was that my happy ass was out the door, in the truck, green light flashing, and speeding off to the station. Again, the green light didn’t help me get there any faster. When I arrived, there were volunteers loading up the command vehicle. They looked at me and said, “Get your shit, and get in!” So I did exactly that. We headed out lights and sirens in a maroon Ford Excursion to a neighboring fire district that had a structure fire going on. Mind you, I’d just learned how to put my pants on that morning.
We arrived at this fire, Milepost 10 of State Route 106. There were emergency vehicles everywhere, hoses and water flowing down the hill, and smoke still coming from the house, although most of the fire had been knocked down. I was excited, confused, and scared shitless. What if I actually had to do something? And what was that something!? I hadn’t been that uncomfortable in a long time, but damn, I loved it. I ended up not doing much at that fire—I wasn’t prepared in any way—but if there had been a race to see who could get their pants on fastest, I would’ve won.
But that was just the beginning of this wild adventure of my career. This was Day One.
