Inside a fire, you don’t see a thing until it’s too late.
Nuclear power plants, firefighter training, and things catching fire when you’re inside them.
Nuclear power plants are big, complicated things. The Shoreham Nuclear Power Station (SNPS) was a vast, complex facility (820 megawatts of electricity production power in a 525-megawatt power box; design consultants would measure rerouting upgraded piping as the old piping was being installed). Personnel access and adequate space for preventative maintenance were a challenge. The fire threats in such an environment (which included a substantial radioactive fuel and waste inventory) were recognized early on. It was decided to form a fire brigade as a first response organization. SNPS leadership asked for volunteers among the nascent plant staff. I volunteered (of course, as it included an opportunity to go to firefighter training!).
At some point in time, I found myself in a firefighter training program somewhere in Connecticut. They set a junked car on fire, which disappeared into a fireball within a few minutes of lighting the seats. (Cool, even if disconcertingly fast and demonstrating how incorporating various rare metals in car construction led to an unusually hot, fierce flaming wreck.)
After concluding the fire demonstrations, we got down to receiving our turnout gear for the rest of the day’s activities and then stood some short training on the use of Self-Contained Breathing Apparatus. Our single cylinder tanks each had about 20 minutes of breathable air dependent upon the level of exertion (a mix of approximately 80% nitrogen and 20% oxygen with some trace gases). We secured our gear, strapped on air tanks with the face mask dangling from its straps, and headed over to the main training facility. Inside the two-story cinder block, training structure was an internal cinder block cradle. Our trainers had placed a bale of hay, poured some accelerant on, and set it aflame, immediately filling the entire training structure with dense black smoke.
“Gentlemen, we are going to enter that building immediately in front of us. The entry will be made through the ductwork in front of you, comprised of concrete pipe with an internal diameter of 3 feet. It is intended to simulate conditions inside of the typical burning building you may find yourself in. You will enter by crawling on your hands and knees for the entire length of the pipe, which is 30 feet. You will advance through the pipe by keeping your right hand on the person's boot in front of you. The person, behind you, in turn, will keep his hand on your boot. Before entering, you are going to count off in the group you’ve been assigned. The number you will call out is your number and how you will be identified and identify yourself. Any questions? Ok, then count off left to right.”
We counted off, “One, two, three, . . .” I was number five.
My group entered the concrete conduit with four guys in front of me and five behind. About three feet in, I couldn’t see a thing and may as well have been blindfolded. I kept my hand securely on the sole of the guy's boot in front of me and felt the pressure of the hand belonging to the guy behind me on my boot. I also found my Scott tank banging against the roof of the concrete conduit above me as I slid my knees forward and tried to keep them as low as possible. We slowly crawled forward, and I started to realize my progress front or back was no faster than the multiple guys ahead and behind me. I began to sense I wanted out of this cramped 30-foot crawl in the pitch-black accompanied just by the sound of my exhaust pressure valve lifting on exhale. I started to realize, a little bit surprised, that I might have a touch of claustrophobia. I kept as calm as I could until I found myself in front of the dark amber orange flames of the burning bale of hay (which, of course, you could barely see until you were on top of it). We exited back through the same tunnel we came in (oh, joy!) and eventually found ourselves in the bright spring Connecticut sunshine.
“So, what ya guys think? How was it?”
His query was primarily met by silence, but some responded, “Wow.”
“Yeah, that’s the way it is in most building fires. Stay low (it’s cooler, and the air is generally better if you’re dragging someone out), and you might find yourself navigating through crawl spaces in a collapsed structure.”
Hmmm (geesus).
“Ok, I need some guys to go in again. Which of you men is up for it?”
Of course, I volunteered. I was nervous, but hey, I was one of the men going in again!
About 15 feet into the conduit, encased by guys front and back, an alarm goes off on my utility belt. My breathing and pulse picked up pretty quickly.
“Who’s that?!?”
“Number 5 man. Low air alarm.”
“Ok, guys, this happens. Let’s get him out of there.”
Move, move, move.
And I was back in front of the burning bale of hay and quickly escorted by a strong set of hands through an emergency exit door in the training structure. I quickly rip off my face mask in the late afternoon sunshine and take a real deep breath.
I had a good time that day, thought a couple of thoughts, and realized I didn’t want to do a similar job in a radioactive environment should those circumstances ever arise. Risk management is addressed by utilizing different tools, but sometimes it helps to recognize which faults you want to avoid.
Like many things at Shoreham, that one stayed with me. Some years later, I had a chance to think about fire hazards in a bad environment one more time.
It started with a slight whirring noise in the engine compartment while on route 75. What goes through your mind? One, nuts, not another engine problem; and two, what is that? And now that our attention is pricked, we start to notice other things. The car doesn’t seem to be moving as rapidly as normal (I eyeballed the speedometer, 65 mph, not the usual 75; depressed the gas pedal, and the engine didn’t respond as it normally would). Fortunately, my exit is coming up, so I exit onto the main four-lane boulevard through Weston. There’s a light at the intersection for Indian Trace, and the engine doesn’t sound right. I accelerate onto Indian Trace after the light turns green and the engine stalls. Editorial voice: from whatever root cause precipitated the series of events for that night as I’ve described it so far, opportunities for meaningful risk mitigation sufficient to preserve the car, and in retrospect, me, are rapidly vanishing.
The inertia of the car’s motion was enough to allow me to steer to the curb. I try to start the car, but the entire instrument panel is dark when I turn the key in the ignition. Light-colored sweet smoke is coming from the engine compartment, but I figure the radiator is busted (for whatever reason) and get out of the car to call Janet for pick-up (about 1/2 mile from home) and inform her I’ll call Allstate Auto while I wait for her. I get back into the car and try the ignition again; the instrument panel lights up this time, and the engine starter cranks, but no ignition is apparent. I exit the car again (wise decision!), smell light smoke coming from the engine compartment, and note it doesn’t smell like antifreeze. Furthermore, although opportunities are shrinking for possible responses, I’m unaware of how close to the Volvo singularity I am.
I look under the car and see some fluid is exiting the engine in a thin stream. Crap. It ignites. Shit!
I think back to the Shoreham firefighter training with their demo of a car fire and being stuck in a smoke-filled cement tunnel with a limited air supply and no escape path.
A very short time after ignition until flames engulf the car.
Don’t lose work. Grab laptop, car emergency kit, and sunglasses (can’t leave behind those Ray Bans!). Go, go, go, go.
Back off.
Call 911.
(Inane conversation with 911 operator), “What color is your car? Me (in slight disbelief), “Orange and yellow, soon to be ash black, my car is on fire.”
“What direction are you heading in?”
“I’m at the intersection of 84 and Indian Trace Road; my car is on fire. Get a f___in fire truck here, lady!”
First Broward County Sheriff’s unit responding tells me when he stopped, he saw some small flickering flames under the engine; three minutes later, the car was engulfed in a fireball.
There’s a relatively rapid series of events following the above narrative that evening (we left for Rochester, NY at 4:30 the following day for Rachel’s graduation from Nazareth College). After seeing the spectators gathered to watch, Janet shows up in rather wide-eyed disbelief (I should add, not entirely wide-eyed disbelief as lone wolf history is marked by periodic episodes similar to this). A flatbed tow truck shows up to remove the dripping wreck, and the spot where she burnt is marked by a set of brackets formed from the molten remains of the bumpers.
I got a couple of shots of the car’s remains in the towing yard with Allstate’s field investigator. All the plastic and glass components in the vehicle had been consumed in the conflagration. I started one of my letter-writing campaigns asking Volvo (Ford) whether their cars usually ended their service life in a similar style. They didn’t respond.
Nothing was recoverable. I had some time to look for another car before the boys went back to school. I walked away and saved my work from the last few weeks proceeding the fire (maybe I should have considered backing up more frequently to the corporate network?). Could it have been a worse outcome? After I had a chance to think about it, yeah, I think it could have been worse. Some car door electronic locks fail closed upon loss of power.
In retrospect, I think of the above when considering risk mitigation and personal standards regarding our definition of acceptable risk levels. I think we like to think things are more rational and predictable than they are. We want all risk mitigated to the point of insignificance, but the reality is that’s impossible. At those rare points when we approach singularities, when we stumble upon an ill-intentioned “black swan” and we’ve employed the best risk reductions we can conceive and (“and” in a Boolean logic sense) live with, sometimes we find ourselves in situations where we can only draw upon our experience, gut instincts, try to beat the clock, and hope our snap responses are adequate for the looming threat.
Of course, in those situations, you would be best advised to at least have considered defining what is your acceptable personal risk level before the “black swan” comes stumbling into your room. A general plan for dealing with foreseeable hazards, both natural and human, is never a bad idea. I think there are two facts undergirding risk analysis and mitigation in life and engineering. One, you can’t count on external help arriving when you need it (or when your associates need it), and two, risk, even if for highly improbable events, is never negligible, not in this life.
