A few years back, a good friend and colleague retired from the fire service. On his last day he wanted to go out on the bay on the rescue boat one last time. He was given permission to take the boat out of service and spend some time on the water (he was a leader in the water rescue program and set a high bar for seamanship within the organization). He didn't want to take a crew out of service to accomplish this and he didn't want to pilot the boat, he just wanted to enjoy being out on the water. He asked if I would come in and pilot the boat for him. I was off duty and my (soon to be) wife and I were spending the night in a hotel after a concert. I told him I would already be close by in the morning and would be honored to take him out.
That morning I arrived at the station and met up with him and just a couple others to go out on the water. No family, just him and a few firefighters. This was just for him to enjoy being with the guys and out doing what he loved and would miss most of all. It's what I enjoy too and I didn't hesitate to say yes and do this for him (and for me).
We did our usual tour of the bay and the bridges, not staying out too long but seeing the highlights of our area of operation and a bit beyond. A short cruise on a beautiful day and back to the station to return the boat. Definitely a nice memory for everyone and not anything that put me out or required any sacrifice at all. But it meant so much more to him than I realized at the time. He brings it up to this day, thanking me for coming in just to drive him around the bay for a couple of hours. I would have rearranged any plans I had to do it though, he is one of the finest human beings I have met. A few years before, he and I had pulled a father and daughter from the bay onto this very same boat after their boat had capsized. So, knowing what an impact that one last ride had on him just makes it that much more priceless a memory.
On the flip side, but as I said before - equally important, today I took another firefighter on a last ride of a much different kind. This time, I was on duty and the rescue boat was detailed to a special assignment to pick up the family of a firefighter we had lost last year and take them out to scatter his ashes at sea. This was a man I knew, not very well, but had worked with a handful of times. He always had a smile on his face and was engaging and would always ask about you and how you and the family were doing. His death hit close to home for a number of reasons, bringing issues of the toll this job can take on people to the forefront for a lot of us.
We met up with his wife, his son, and his parents at the marina along with the crew of a second boat who would lead the way for us. These were people I had never met and to add to the anonymity, we were all masked due to covid precautions. It was a surprisingly light hearted ride out, almost jovial. In this case, I was taking people who had never been on the bay like this, or passed under the bridges so they were excited by all the new sites and wildlife as well. We saw pelicans, seals, and even a porpoise on the way, which we perceived as a good sign. We took a long and circuitous route to try to keep in the calmest water possible. The last thing we wanted was for anyone to get sick or soaking wet or to be bounced around too much.
I had taken part in a very similar ceremony for my father in law the year before and knew the way to a pretty area where we could scatter the ashes if the water wasn't too rough. As we passed under the bridge, everything seemed to shift just a little: the mood, the water, the weather. Everything became a little bit darker and more somber. I brought the boat to what I felt would be the best location for us to do this and explained how best to scatter the ashes and maneuver the boat (as best I remembered from the year before).
His father asked to say a few celebratory words about his son and then recite a psalm before they began. When he had concluded he moved to the side of the boat and opened the first of the two jars they had brought and let the ashes go into the wind and sea as I steered the boat gently forward and arcing away from the shore. Next, his wife and son took up position along the side of the boat and repeated the ceremony with the second jar as I completed the arc, leaving the ashes in as close to a floating circle as ai could. This time, however, the scattering was followed by her slumping down, her head and arms resting on the boats sponson, the empty jar still open and held in her hand. We were all still for just a moment as her grief seemed to pour into the sea after him. After a moment, she straightened, and the first thing she did was thank us all for taking the time to do this for them.
Again, I would have rearranged whatever I had to do, and made myself available to do something like this if asked. But in reality, I was on duty, it was luck of the draw, so to speak. But it was an experience I won't ever forget either and I'm so glad we could be there for his family and make this happen for them.
Damn near the same ride, the highs and lows, grief and elation, celebration and mourning, and ultimately celebration again...paid or unpaid, by choice or by circumstance, these two rides sum up a career in the fire service pretty well, I think, and will undoubtedly stay with me forever.
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