A Windy Night

A Windy Night

It was a good thing I slept well during the day, since I was working the graveyard shift at Humboldt Bay Power Plant, five miles south of Eureka, California. The day was December 22, 1977 and we were living in Rio Dell, which is in the Eel River Valley. This valley is in the heart of redwood country. David was sixteen months old and Cindy was six months pregnant with our second child.

When I was up and about, I heard an unusual clanking noise outside. It sounded like empty trash cans were tumbling down the street. There was a good explanation for that racket. The trash collectors had just made their rounds, so my trash cans were empty. They were not, however, in front of my house anymore. The wind was pushing them down the street. I ran fast to retrieve them. This was my first sign that an unusual windstorm was blowing in.

It got worse. The power went out, which was no surprise. The house shook. That was a surprise. You don’t need a meteorologist to tell you its windy when your house is shaking and all you hear is the wind howling, with an occasional bump in the night. I should point out that our backyard was covered with trees.

Although these were hurricane force winds, there was actually very little rain falling. Many other things were falling, but I’ll get to that later.

At 11 p.m. I left to go to work. Cindy expressed concern for me as I was leaving, but I pointed out I would be better off than she, as soon as I started the car. After all, she would still be in the dark.

My commute to work was entering the 101 freeway and driving north for twenty miles. Fortunately for me, that was the direction the wind was blowing. I remember there was less traffic than usual. There was a car parked on the side of the road with the driver frantically flagging me down. Doing my good deed for the day, I stopped and offered my assistance. He was a young man trying to drive home to Fortuna, the next town north of Rio Dell. He ran out of gas, just a few miles from home, because all the gas stations were closed due to lack of power. He asked that I drive him to home. His mother stayed in the car while I did this. His father was available to return him to his car with a can full of gasoline. I was glad I left for work earlier than normal.

The freeway crosses over a hill and descends into the Humboldt Bay area. When I reached the northern side of the hill I was surprised to see city lights. It turns out this was a localized windstorm affecting the Eel River Valley more than Eureka and the Humboldt Bay area. It was windy, but not as windy. There were scattered outages on this side of the hill, including the community across the street from the power plant. I was expecting the power plant to be off line, but it was still on-line, but at a reduced power output.

The man I relieved at the power plant was very impressed with the wind speeds he experienced while working the swing shift. One of our duties included inspecting the outside equipment, both at ground level and high on the boiler towers. However, he wasn’t climbing any outside stairs for nobody in that wind. He told me that the sheet metal cover to an outside waste oil collection tank was missing. This cover was about eight foot square and one half inch thick.

The winds dramatically decreased throughout the night, enabling me to safely make my outside rounds. I even went to the top of the boilers, about one hundred feet in elevation. When there was enough light, I found the missing cover thirty feet from the tank. The wind had lifted it up and thrown it over a five foot high oil pipe.

When my day shift relief arrived, he told me he heard that the Eel River Valley was declared a disaster area. This was shocking news to him, since he was in northern Humboldt County, which was not affected.

I returned home to a very relieved wife. We did a quick damage assessment. Three trees on our property were toppled, including my favorite redwood tree. Part of our fence was knocked down. Fortunately for us, there was no damage to the house.

A local grocery store on our block lost its roof. A tree collapsed on a house on the next street over. Elsewhere in the county, three people were killed when a redwood tree fell on their car as they were fleeing the storm. These were the only fatalities; however, there were a number of other injuries. A drive-in theater screen was destroyed. The only good news was that an old barn in the town of Ferndale was also demolished. Tree limbs and power lines were down everywhere.  

I heard I rumor that a wind gauge meter was broken by a gust of wind exceeding 134 miles per hour. Otherwise, I have no idea how fast the winds blew that night.

The rest of California didn’t notice, or care about, our little maelstrom because the Bakersfield area was hit by a much larger windstorm with gusts exceeding 192 miles per hour. Google, “Bakersfield 1977 windstorm,” for an interesting search result.

Our power was restored the next day, in time for my brother to visit. Since Christmas was on a Sunday, I knew he and his wife would want to attend church. That was the first time I had ever been in an LDS church. At the start of the meeting, the man conducting the meeting announced that all the ward members were okay. I wondered at the time how he could know that.

I met the stranded man at the grocery store a few days later. He expressed his gratitude and then told me what his mother had done. She had opened the doors and let the wind push her car down the road. She had traveled almost a mile before he caught up with her.

Getting Married

Getting Married

In May of 1973 I drove nine hundred miles to visit my girlfriend. It was a very productive visit, because this lonely sailor finally convinced my girlfriend to become my finance. We selected September 3^rd as our original wedding date.

This date made sense. Cindy will have graduated from Mount San Antonio Junior College and will have a License of Vocational Nursing. She and her family would also have time to plan the wedding.

I encountered the first glitch in our plans when I returned to duty Idaho. My Leading Petty Officer told me that I could not get leave in September, since someone else in the group already asked for leave in September. (Leave is military speak for vacation.) In fact, August was also taken. However, the man who had scheduled his leave for July moved to another crew. My supervisor suggested I take July off and go get married.

It was time to call Cindy. We agreed on July 7^th as our new wedding date.

The second glitch in our plans was the size of the wedding. My future in-laws could not afford a large wedding and insisted that the wedding be kept small. This would mean some people I would have wanted there could not be. My family was unhappy about this, but when they understood the situation, they backed off.

We had four weeks for a honeymoon, but not much money. We pooled our money together and bought camping equipment. The plan was to stay in a motel in Santa Barbara on our wedding night and then start a long camping trip, visiting Yosemite, the redwoods, the Oregon and Washington Coasts, Seattle, crossing Idaho and Montana to Yellowstone, and then finishing at our new home in Pocatello. It seemed like a good plan. After all, I had driven past a sign that says, “Lodging, next 17 miles,” every time I drove through Santa Barbara. (I believe that sign is still there.) Santa Barbara had thousands of motel rooms.

Cindy found a place, the Chapel of Roses, in West Covina, set up a time, and made reservations for a reception at an Italian restaurant. My part was to drive myself nine hundred miles, non-stop, from Pocatello, Idaho to my family’s house in La Puente.

I had been away from my hometown for almost three years, so most of the people I knew had moved on. My best friend, Jack Pyle, was back in town after two years in the Marines. He was the Best Man. The night before the wedding, he and one of my brothers tried to get me drunk. I had other things on my mind, so I pretty much stayed sober. On the wedding day, my brother and best friend were horribly hung over.

The wedding itself and the reception went off without a hitch. Cindy was beautiful in her white dress. When it came time to kiss the bride, the kiss was very passionate.

Sometime during the reception, Cindy and I sneaked off. But not soon enough. Busy hands, with lipstick, wrote “Just Married” on the rear window of my car and provided other decorations.

That night, we were newlyweds trying to get a room. I was shocked when the first motel proprietor told us that all of his rooms were taken. Furthermore, he doubted any motel in Santa Barbara had any vacancy. He did find us a room at another motel.

Our “honeymoon suite” was a two bed room in a one star hotel. We just laughed it off. She took the bed on the right and I took the bed on the left.  (Not. I just want the reader to pay attention.) We really did laugh at the situation. Neither one of us ever had a load of money. It turns out I had married a cheapskate…I mean a frugal person.

On July 8^th, we drove from Santa Barbara, through the central coast, into the central Valley and eventually into Yosemite National Park. By this time, we were getting tired and grouchy and low on gas. We were having an argument about something until we turned a corner. When I saw the view, I had to stop the car. We were at the overlook of the Yosemite Valley, one of the most magnificent mountain valleys anywhere. We admired the waterfalls as they tumbled from sheer cliffs on either side of the valley. Half dome was absolutely breathtaking. This view promises the first time visitor a great experience in the valley. The Yosemite Valley fulfills this promise.

We were lucky enough to find a camping spot just as the sun was setting. It was time to unpack our brand new tent. Did I ever mention that it gets dark fast in the mountains? Have you ever tried to set up a brand new tent, at night? While driving a car that still says “Just Married” on the rear view window? With a little bit of help, and flashlights, other campers helped us pitch our tent.

For the next four weeks, we spent a few days camping, one night in a motel room, and then more days camping. Cindy had never seen the redwoods and absolutely fell in love with Humboldt State Park. By the time we got to Yellowstone, we were running short on money. I still had some money in the bank in Pocatello, but ATM machines had not been invented yet. We spent enough time in Yellowstone to know we wanted to return.

This was a happy four weeks. We had this time all to ourselves. This was before the Inter-net had been invented. Personal computers and cell phones were still on the drawing boards. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, we had dropped off the place of the planet. When we arrived in Pocatello, we were broke and tired, but we were still very much in love.

Crashing cars

Crashing

I grew up in California. (At least I got older.) I learned how to drive a car in California. I learned how to crash a car while living in Idaho.

I was driving to the Salt Lake City airport one winter morning. I was not driving on the freeway that leads into this airport, but on a two lane road. I was driving the speed limit of 45 miles per hour when a saw a curve up ahead, along with a “Curve Ahead” sign. This sign said to reduce speed to 35 mph. I took my foot off of the accelerator and applied the brakes, intending to slow down. The car did not slow down. Instead, it slid off the road and hit the sign. I was surprised and confused. After all, the roadway was clear of snow and ice.

Wrong. I stepped out of my car and attempted to stand on the slickest surface I could never have imagined. I just learned what black ice looks and feels like. Some guys stopped and helped me push my car back to the road. We were able to prop up the sign. I was still young and indestructible.

Winter was not through with me yet.

I bought a new car, an RX-3 Mazda, with an experimental rotary engine. I loved that car because it was quiet and fast. There was only one thing I didn’t like about it. The Nanny State Government passed a law mandating that all new cars have an ignition-seat belt interlock. That is, before I could start my brand new car, I had to have my seatbelt fastened. I grew up in the sixties. Often, we didn’t even have seatbelts, much less use them.

I was working at a naval reactor prototype, located in the Idaho lava desert, thirty miles from the nearest town. Usually, I took the bus, but I wasn’t required to. I decided to drive my fun little Mazda.

The road back into town was mostly cleared of snow and ice. Did you catch the key word of that last sentence? I hit a patch of snow and ice and went into a skid. I turned into the skid and my car stopped skidding and drove straight. However, it was no longer traveling parallel to the road, but at forty-five degree angle. I left the roadway, went down an embankment, flipped end over end and came to rest right side up in a snowy field of lava boulders.

Except for a bruised ego, I was not hurt. There was no broken glass. There was a large dent in the roof, directly over my head. I would have broken my neck.

I flagged down a passing bus. The driver stopped and let me on. The passengers gasped when I said I ran off the road, but were relieved when I said nobody was hurt. I exited the bus in Blackfoot and called the Idaho Highway Patrol.

The patrolman took me back to my car. A tow truck operator pulled my car back to the road, we pulled the fender away from the right front tire, and I started the car. I actually drove it home.

The next morning I took the bus. My bus driver was excited to see me, because he saw me crash in his rear view mirror. Since I was not hurt, it was time to tease me. That did wonders for my ego. Not.

However, the car was repaired and I went on with the rest of my life, grateful that I was still alive and able-bodied.

This incident explains two things about me. One, it explains why I live in California. Two, it explains how I became a fanatical adherent to using seat belts.

  

Putting out fires.

Putting Out Fires

I had survived fire fighter training and I brought back pictures to prove it. Eight year old David was awestruck by the photo of me and my coworkers confronting a fire. We were dwarfed by the oil fueled inferno.

“Cool,” he said with a big grin. Wrong. I assure you, it was NOT cool. Let me describe some of the training the firemen put themselves through.

 

 

My first training day of fire fighting occurred during basic training in the Navy. It is a dire emergency when a naval ship catches fire. A ship carries thousands of gallons of fuel, lubricating, and hydraulic oil. Many of the boats also carry bombs, artillery, and other things that go BOOM. When a fire breaks out, the sailors can call the fire department or put out the fire themselves. Oh, wait, the fire department is not in the middle of the ocean.

The fires we were trained on ranged from small oil puddle fires to large oil tank fires. Think of a large doughboy backyard swimming pool full of diesel, with a fifty foot flame on top spewing tons of black smoke into rural San Diego County. We were shown the wrong way and the right way to extinguish a large oil fire.  The wrong way, hitting the burning oil with a solid stream of water, tends to be much more exciting, since larger flames will erupt and try to eat you. Most people are excited enough with the fire as is, and prefer attacking the fire with a spray of water, or better yet, a spray of foam.

The worst fires are inside the mock-up ship compartments. We had to crawl into these spaces with stuff on fire. This is where I learned very quickly that Hollywood displays interior fires very inaccurately. A fire creates dark smoke. Smoke obscures your vision. You might see the end of your nose. You will not see the end of your hand. Breathing is a problem and it is best to have some sort of breathing apparatus. Otherwise, the Navy would be notifying the next of kin.

After I left the Navy, I went to work at a small power plant. The fire department is closer to the power plant, but if a fire breaks out, it is a good thing to hit it quickly, before it gets bigger. Accordingly, we received some fire fighting training. I only had to use my training once. I was working outside with a welding mechanic near a large fuel oil tank. Actually, the convenient source of combustion was a waste oil vat, about the size of an eight person Jacuzzi pool. The sparks from the welder set this pool of oil on fire. This was black gooey fuel oil that didn’t really burn fast and furious. But it did start to burn. The flames started to spread. The welder and I had an impromptu contest to see who would panic first. Eventually, one of us used the handy-dandy fire extinguisher to put the fire out.

The Diablo Canyon nuclear power plant is much larger and much farther away from the nearest fire department. By default, the operators were the fire brigade. The plant management hired an experienced fire fighter to train us and act as the Plant Fire Marshall. The decision was made to send us to the same fire fighting training grounds used by professional firemen.

One such training ground, near Bakersfield, was set up to train firemen to attack oil field fires. The biggest challenge of the day was a mock-up of an oil tanker at a fuel loading facility. Diesel oil was pumped out of a pipe onto a tanker truck. The diesel oil was splattering over the tanker truck and surrounding ground. The diesel was on fire. I’m talking a big fire, with flames shooting at least fifty feet in the air. The goal of this exercise was to send a team up a metal stairway to a valve at the end of the oil pipe. The instructor would close the valve, stopping the flow of fuel. Did I mention that the stairway is completely engulfed in flames?

Four teams with fire hoses would approach the fire at different angles, to push the flames away from the stairway. Each team consisted of three or four men, with the lead man holding the hose nozzle. One of the hose teams would climb the stairway to push the flames away from the valve. On our first attempt, the man holding the end of the hose was a young man with zero fire fighting experience. He found himself staring at a huge wall of fire and smoke and concluded he had enough. He let go of the hose nozzle and hastily retreated. I am glad to say that I was on a hose team on the ground, so I didn’t see anything. Fortunately, a safety observer did see what was happening and stopped the fuel supply. My hose team, and the others, pushed the fire away from the people on the stairway. Nobody was hurt.

The instructors regrouped us, putting someone else on nozzle. The young man that dropped the hose was assigned to help hold the hose. The fire was relit and we made a successful attack.

But we were not done yet. Yours truly was the “nozzle man” on the next team to ascend through the flames to reach the fuel valve. We reached the top the stairs, with water spraying all over the place, burning diesel fuel spilling out, and the valve in sight. We were all wet and covered with soot. The instructor placed his hand on the valve and paused for what seemed like a long time. Finally, he closed the valve and stopped the flow of burning oil. Then he smiled like the Cheshire cat. I suspected the man was crazy before, but now I knew it beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Firemen do think differently than normal, sane human beings. Diablo Canyon is located in the California countryside. Every now and then, the California countryside catches on fire. I was on duty in the Control Room when one of these wild land fires started on the hill above the power plant. This fire was bigger than we could handle and we immediately called for the California Department of Forestry, also known as CDF. When my shift was over and I was on my way home, I was asked to help a CDF crew refill their water tanker with one of our fire hydrants. So here I am, chatting with the CDF fireman while filling his truck. The brush fire is burning above the power plant, from one end of the plant to the other. This is a least a quarter mile long.

The friendly fellow says, “Nice little fire you have here.” I could only shake my head in disbelief.

The wives of the firemen may be just as crazy. One day, a traffic accident along the access road started a fire. A fire brigade team and the plant Fire Marshal responded to the scene. I stayed on duty in the Control Room.

The Fire Marshal calls me on the radio and asks, “Mike, please call my wife and tell her I’ll be home late from work.”

“Okay, I can do that.” I called his wife and explained that her husband was fighting a fire along our access road. A sane wife would be concerned about her husband’s safety. This lady laughed.

“He’ll have fun with that one,” she said.

Someone decided that big smoky oil fires were sort of polluting the atmosphere. The solution was to train using propane fires. Propane burns very cleanly and very hot. Sometimes, the flame is invisible. There was one training exercise near Cuesta College that used propane for a big fire. The goal was to shut off the gas by closing a valve. Of course, the fuel valve was right in the fire. On one approach, with yours truly on the nozzle, I was feeling downright hot under the fireman suit jacket. My shoulder was much hotter than it should have been. I asked for an orderly retreat. Apparently, a small finger of hot gas or steam was reaching through a gap in the water spray and hitting me. My skin was just red enough to convince everyone we did the right thing.

Diablo Canyon eventually hired professional firemen to staff a permanent Fire Brigade. Most of the power plant operators were more than glad to have them on site.

Even though I left the Operations department and fire fighting, I will always have a profound respect for the men and women who don those yellow suits and air tanks, and rush into dark, smoky and burning buildings to rescue people and protect property.