Life at a firehouse

It's 2:55 on a weekday at Naples Fire Station 2 when the tones come over the loudspeaker. A high note followed by a low note means it's a call for Fire Station 1 in Old Naples and we can ignore it. But if it's a low note followed by a high note, it's a call for the men of Station 2.

Dooooh, OOOOOH!

It's a low-to-high tone, and the firefighters freeze and cock an ear toward ceiling speakers to hear the dispatcher's words, which spill out like an invisible, omniscient goddess ordering their universe into action.

A fire alarm is going off at a condo near Gulf Shores Boulevard and everyone heads for the door. The guys step into crumpled heaps of heavy, insulated pants they always leave on the garage floor just outside the doors of the fire engine, near their assigned seats.

Everyone swings up into the vehicle and, just like that, I'm strapped into the rear-facing backseat of Fire Engine 2 as we pull out of the station, lights flashing and siren blaring as Jeff Bronsdon works a 30-foot-long, 40,000-pound fire engine across four lanes of Highway 41.

Screaming through the Moorings, Bronsdon approaches a four-way stop.

"You're clear this way," Lt. Mike Nichols — the man in charge — says in the front passenger seat. Bronsdon hits the gas. Sam Poole, sitting across from me in the other rear-facing backseat pulls on the rest of his gear and fastens his boots.

Bronsdon pulls into the condo parking lot and Poole and Nichols jump out. Both are wearing oxygen tanks on their backs and Poole's holding an ax and a crow-bar over his shoulder as they head for the building.

As Bronsdon gets out and reaches into the backseat to put on his own gear (because he's the driver he doesn't don his gear until they arrive) a woman in a bikini strolls out front. There's no smoke, no heat, no indication that there's a fire anywhere.

"It's probably a false alarm," Nichols says as he searches bushes, looking for the electrical box that he finally locates on the condo's outer wall.

"The alarm is showing no problems," he says trudging back toward the engine. It's the second false alarm in a row. In older condos, Nichols says, humidity and salt air sometimes wreak havoc on alarm systems.

Back at the truck, hats off and stripping out of their insulated coats on a 92-degree day, the lieutenant and Poole climb into the truck and wipe their foreheads.

Nichols might have known the day would go like this: a day where almost every call is a false alarm, every fire station vehicle develops problems, and there's a reporter spending 24 hours at the firehouse documenting it all.

It started just like a Monday

When the C-Shift of Fire Station 2 shows up for work at 8 a.m. in the pale green building on 26th Avenue North, Engine 2 has a low tire and needs a repair. Rescue 2 (the smallest vehicle, looking more like a little truck on steroids) has electrical problems, and within two hours a firefighter performing maintenance on Tower 2 (the 45-foot truck with aerial ladder on top) breaks the linkage where the fire hose connects to the truck.

Other fire stations in town call this firehouse Iguana Mia, after the similarly-hued restaurant in Bonita that serves free dinner on your birthday. On days like this, Nichols sees it a different way.

"That's institutional green," he says, pointing to the guacamole walls and walking across the parking lot to get a better look at Tower 2. "It keeps us mellow," he says.

And mellow is what you want in a firefighter, whether he's rescuing canaries in trees (yes, it's happened) or battling flames. So, on this Monday, between answering false alarms and freeing people trapped in an elevator, Nichols sets about solving problems.

Rescue 2 gets a new battery, Engine 2 a new tire and Tower 2 will have to wait for a new part. In the meantime, Fire Station 1 in Old Naples sends a backup vehicle to tide them over.

Jerry Pecar is one of the guys who comes over from Fire Station 1. He's on the hazmat team, here to check suits to make sure they're still airtight. He also refills the candy vending machine, whose quarters from hungry firefighters pay for the station's cable TV and newspaper subscriptions.

One of the hardest things about being a firefighter is the schedule. In Naples, they work one day on, two days off. But for that one day, they work 24 hours straight. They are not allowed to leave except for going out on calls.

Pecar remembers a scary call he got a couple years ago from his wife about their child.

"Jesse just fell down and cut his face," his wife told him. "What do I do?"

"Once you walk through the door, this is your home," Pecar says. Clothes at the dry-cleaners stay there, checks in wallets go uncashed and wives whose cars break down remain on the side of the road or figure it out themselves.

If you ever thought firefighters sat around doing nothing between fires, you're wrong. From 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. they are a blur of movement, inspecting equipment and public buildings, filing paperwork, continuing training, and keeping both the inside and outside of their vehicles clean. Everything on a fire truck has a specific place and purpose. There's no room for dirt.

"I take better care of this truck than my own," Bronsdon says, rinsing soap off the sides of Engine 2. The paint lasts longer on a clean truck, and less dirt finds its way into the compartments on the side where axes and other tools are kept.

Donald Alderman, the firefighter who drives Tower 2 (and says all real fire trucks are red) has already washed his and tested the hydraulics that raise the aerial ladder high enough to see the Gulf beyond the hotels and condos to the west.

Tulio Sandoval, a former Marine, and Paul Ferreira, the station's rookie, are out on one of many medical calls Fire Rescue makes each day. Everyone at Station 2 hopes they're making progress on a Code 9, since morning has now become afternoon.

"Code 9 is shopping," explains Alderman, the most gregarious firefighter at Station 2. He's tall and muscular like Mr. Clean and with nearly 40 years at the Naples Fire Department, he's a live wire. If practical jokes were still allowed, he's the one who'd be masterminding them.

Like the time he found out on a rookie's first day that the new hire was afraid of rats and waited until the rookie went to bed and engineered a fishing line and a weight to sound just like a rat scampering across the tile floor.

Quick with a joke and a laugh, Alderman spends almost the entire day with a cup of iced tea in his hand.

"We took a vote: He's drinking decaf," Bronsdon interjects as he walks by.

Mealtime

At the firehouse, everyone eats as a group and groceries have to be purchased every day. The city of Naples runs the department with three shifts of workers. The A-Shift works one 24-day, B the next and the C-Shift staffs the following day.

The three shifts are what makes the one-day-on, one-day-off schedule possible. But it also means that with only one refrigerator, there's not enough room for any shift to keep groceries lying around. So, every morning the guys decide on a quick menu and who'll do the cooking, and then try to squeeze in a grocery run.

Because they also have to be ready to go on a call at all times, they drive the fire truck to the grocery store and shop with a radio in hand. Today it's turkey sandwiches for lunch; Sandoval will be cooking dinner. This, I learn, is a treat, as every firefighter here says Sandoval is the best. "Oh, Tulio's cooking tonight," Alderman says with a smile. "You're in for a treat."

"Man, is he a cook," Poole chimes in. "Just to eat is worth working here."

Ask any fireman on any shift at any station and he'll tell you who's the best cook. Chances are he wears the badge with honor, but it also means he ends up doing the most cooking.

One of the benefits of the A-B-C shift system is that everyone on each shift spends a lot of time together. They see more of their buddies than their own families, and they learn they can trust each other when lives depend on it. And for all the sincerity that comes with this trust, or the serious acknowledgment about who's the best cook, there is an equal amount of teasing. Think football players in a locker room.

Everyone gathers for lunch around a wooden table. The Rookie, whom I've yet to hear speak, sets the table and gets out of the way.

I apparently take the wrong seat.

"Hey, look where she sat," Alderman bellows, beginning to laugh, looking around at all the others.

"Oh, is this the lieutenant's seat?" I ask, getting up. (When I'd asked Alderman earlier what Nichols' first name was, he'd answered "Lieutenant.")

"No, no, no. Don't get up, just stay there," Alderman says.

"Are the seats assigned?" I ask.

"No, no," Alderman assures me, and the others concur.

Then Bronsdon walks in the room. He's a handsome man with a husky voice and sandy hair just starting to go gray at the temples that makes a man in his 40s just get better looking. He looks mildly embarrassed, like he knows what's coming; that he's about to get payback for his earlier jab at Alderman about the caffeine.

It turns out Bronsdon prefers this chair and everyone knows it. And not in the that's-my-favorite-seat kind of way, or because he has a lot of seniority (which he does). He's just particular about which chair he sits in and what plate he uses.

"Every once in a while that plate goes missing," Alderman says with a wink, before adding: "He's like that guy in 'As Good as it Gets.'"

Bronsdon is a good sport, though, and even though I've long gotten out of the chair, Bronsdon takes a seat across the table. He looks sheepish. He's far too polite to have ever said anything to me, but since the chair is open, he finally gets up and goes back to it.

Because the guys are busy all day with duties, lunch and dinner are sometimes the only time that everyone gets together. It also seems to be the time — despite the lieutenant's request to the contrary — that everyone tries to outgross the others with war stories. It starts innocently enough with crews recounting their day.

Such as: Rescue 2 gets called on a lot of medical, non-fire emergencies (people having heart attacks, etc.) and on this day got called to the waiting room of a doctor's office for a man who apparently couldn't wait any longer for his appointment.

Someone remembers responding to a call that turned out to be a cocktail party for a visiting conference of doctors, where all the doctors stood around holding cocktails, looking down at the guy being worked on and offering a running commentary: "Oh, that's an interesting way to do that."

The conversation degenerates quickly when a call comes over the speaker regarding the report of a woman in an apartment whose neighbors suspect might be dead, and might have been dead for a while. The dispatcher comes back on seconds later to correct the apartment number. "Just follow the smell," someone shouts at the speaker, and from there things devolve into images you'd rather I not reveal.

After lunch, Sandoval, the ex-Marine who's built like a bulldog, dons a pair of blue latex gloves to marinate the chicken he'll turn into tonight's fajitas.

The lieutenant, who apparently makes the best salsa (Alderman had to bug him for weeks to get the recipe) is chopping tomatoes and onions and bell peppers.

The Rookie — 24-year old Paul Ferreira,whom I still haven't heard speak — does most of the cleaning up afterward and disappears to the living quarters of the station, where I finally find him mopping floors for at least the third time today.

He interprets his job as Rookie and being the guy who sets and clears the table, mops floors and makes sure there's always toilet paper on the rolls. He's a firefighter like his dad, so he got a few pointers before he showed up for work his first day.

"If they don't hear about you, it's good," he explains, moving the mop back and forth the entire time he politely answers questions. I ask him if he finally gets to relax in the living room recliners and watch TV after 5, which is when firefighters are allowed leisure time as long as they've finished their other duties.

A look of incredulity crosses his face. Like I've just asked him if he'd rather fight fires with alcohol. "I've only sat down in those chairs once or twice," he says. He works until 8 or 10 at night, he says, which is when he retires to his bunk and studies for the exams a rookie must take during his first year.

Naples Chief Jim McEvoy stops by around 5. The Rookie is working on paperwork and Alderman's looking over his shoulder. McEvoy laughs about an over-eager rookie on another shift who took bagels to work the first day. Apparently, the poor guy's still trying to live that down. McEvoy explains the family dynamics of Shift C.

"You have Dad out there," McEvoy says, pointing toward the lieutenant, whose job it is to make sure everyone stays alive. "This is the annoying little brother," he says about Alderman, who grins before adding that that must make Bronsdon the weird, older brother.

"What about the Rookie?" I ask.

"He's the family cat," McEvoy says, laughing.

The Rookie's eyes never leave the paperwork.

Alderman finally admits that rookies earn respect. Lt. Jim Bruener breezes by on his way out of the exercise room and heads over to the EMS side of the building, where he spends his days. But back when he used to work on the fire side, Bruener earned Alderman's respect when he volunteered to go into a burning office building.

"He stayed right there with me," Alderman says. Afterward, Bruener supposedly told Alderman he was terrified. "He earned my respect."

Evening falls on Fire Station 2

Shortly before dinner Sandoval teaches the Rookie how to sauté vegetables and a different way of cooking rice. The fajitas are terrific and the salsa incredible. Back at the dining table, everyone laughs together again.

This camaraderie, they'll tell you, is one of the best things about their jobs. After dinner they gather in the seven recliners that line the living room. No couches to be shared here. Every man can be king of his own domain.

They dig into the Carvel ice cream cake left from another shift's birthday celebration. Some call their wives. Gina Tulumillo, a paramedic from EMS and the only other woman around, studies a nursing textbook.

"The Sopranos" comes on the wide screen TV, then news. Other, younger shifts like to play video games, and there's a second TV with a Sony PlayStation hooked up to it. Slowly, everyone heads off to bed and there's only Alderman and the lieutenant left in the living room.

The lieutenant gets a text message from his son who just got his FCAT results. Alderman jokes that his wife likes getting one out of three nights away from him. He says he knows she uses the entire bed, because on nights he's home, her arms and legs are all over the place.

That's the hardest part. Being away from his family. "You miss out," he says. For every fireman with a child, there are Little League games or school plays and birthdays that are missed. Vacations, too.

"I was buckling my toddler into the seat, going to Disney World," Nichols says, when he got called into work. "It's a career. My wife understands I'm going to be away a third of the time."

Not all wives understand, though, and it's a strain on many marriages. But from the first time he went out on a fire, Nichols, who used to own a bakery, says there wasn't anything that can compare to being in the middle of it all.

"I rode on an engine and was hooked," he says. "When I leave, I leave knowing that I made a difference."

They're still up when I turn in at this newly remodeled fire station, where everyone gets his own room instead of the shared sleeping quarters they used to have.

Low to High, Low to High, I chant to myself, trying to remember Fire Station 2's dispatch tones that I expect to hear in the middle of the night.

The next morning, I run into Alderman first thing.

"You missed two fire runs last night!" he says.

"Yeah, we tiptoed past your door," Bronsdon says, holding up his hands like he's carrying shoes.

They're kidding. There weren't any middle-of-the-night runs.

Everyone is up by 7, showered and lined up at 8 for shift change.

A-Shift listens to C-Shift's reports as the torch is passed, and the manly smell of cologne fills the air in what feels like the most masculine place on Earth.

C-Shift clocks out and the guys head off to enjoy the day, or report to second jobs, which many of them have.

By 8:05 the first dispatch call for A-Shift comes in and the great machinery that is the Naples City Fire Department springs into action. They didn't even have time to plan dinner.