I worked up on Nootka Island right up until logging was shut down for fire season. During this time, I booked back into my parents’ home.
One August night, on a Friday, I had come home around midnight. I had been drinkingI saw my dad was sleeping in his chair in the living room. I said sleeping, but it was far more likely he was passed out drunk. My twin sister was in bed, my mom was in Vancouver, and my older brother, Howard, was still out. I was hungry and decided to pan-fry some chips, so I loaded up the pan with oil and sliced some spuds. While I was waiting for the oil to heat, I went to the washroom, got seated down and started to read a magazine. I forgot about the oil and was only reminded of what I was doing when my twin sister started screaming. The house was on fire, and she was yelling. I quickly ran out, and sure enough, the pan was in flames, and the cupboards above the stove were burning. I told my sister to call the fire department and then get out while I went to wake Dad. Funny, but I seem to have sobered up and become clear-headed in that moment.
I could not wake Dad, and as he weighed close to 300 pounds, while I was just a bit over 100 pounds, soaking wet, there was no way that I could carry him. So I pulled him from his chair onto the floor, flames had now entered the room, and the smoke was burning my eyes, causing me to cough. I thought for a moment about just running out. At this time, my adrenaline kicked in.
I grabbed my dad by his wrists and started to drag him across the room toward the front door. The flames were now all around us, the heat made it very hard to breath. I was struggling to get him across the room. Just as I got him to the door, the windows blew in, and all hell was unleashed into the house; the ceiling tiles came crashing down, all except right over us at the door. The past winter, we had sprung a leak there, and Dad had to replace a patch of tiles in that spot; these stayed up, giving me time to get the door open.
Flames were shooting out the door just above my head as I crouched down to try to get my dad out the door, but I was having a hard time trying to get Dad over the sill. The house had become an inferno. My hair, face and arms were getting burnt, the heat was very intense, the air was hot, and it was hard to breathe. Just then, I heard a car come to a squealing halt, and a young man came running up to the door and took hold of my dad with me, and we half-carried, half-dragged my dad to the other side of the street. My dad had some burns, but thanks to this teen, he was saved.
As we got my dad across the street, my brother came home and, not realizing that Dad was safely out of the house, he tried to enter, fully intent on saving Dad. The Police and firemen were holding him back, but he was fighting to get free and into the house. Some of the police and firemen sustained black eyes and bloody noses before I was able to get through to him that Dad was safe. At this point, we were able to calm him down. No charges were brought against him as he was just a 22-year-old man trying to rescue his dad.
Mom was going to be home the day after the fire, but we had no way to contact her, so we waited for her to pull up in a taxi. She never fully recovered from the loss of all her memories, and I still feel the pain of being the one to have caused it all.
Later that week, Tony Simnett, editor of the Islander Newspaper, ran a full front-page story about the fire with the title in large print that said: “sixteen-year-old boy dashes through raging flames to save sleeping father.” It would have been more honest if it said, Drunk son starts a house on fire and nearly kills his drunk father. I was no hero that day. I still have nightmares about the fire and how I almost killed my dad.