Almanac Life: A Week at Fiskville

 

 

The petro-chemical company for which I worked constantly spouted their commitment to safety, and in the late 80’s they decided to really put their money where their mouth was. It may have been a happy accident that the company’s newfound munificence was coinciding with an increased community focus on workplace safety. Or maybe it wasn’t. But it often seemed like the training budget was limitless.

 

New and improved occupational health and safety legislation was also sweeping in. Suddenly, the company’s most feared person on the shop floor was not the union shop-steward, but the humble OH&S representative who now had the legislative backing to affect change. Funding for a useless pneumatic device which will not eliminate the manual tasks it was intended to? Here is a bucket of cash. Money for training for safety reps? Not a problem. Safety-based university courses that may not even be applicable to your job? Let us write you a cheque. And if an employee wanted to be sent on a fire-fighting training course, off you went.

 

I was in my early 20’s. I was single, and I had no real commitments. So just for something to do, I volunteered for a week-long fire-fighting course, run by the Country Fire Authority at their training facility in the bush. Fiskville, near Ballarat, had originally been constructed as a long-distance radio communication station, but was taken over by the CFA to train their permanent and volunteer firefighters. To assist in paying for the upkeep and operation of the facility, the CFA opened its doors to corporate clients – and that is exactly how I happened to lob up at Fiskville on a cold Monday morning in October.

 

 

To be fair, the accommodation was cosy. At the front of the property, there were a number of California bungalow type cottages with expansive rooms, each with two beds. I shared a room with a giant of a bloke named Bob, who worked for a South Australian mining company somewhere north of Goyder’s Line. We assembled for the roll call with about thirty other men, looking for all the world like we had just strolled off the set of F Troop. An instructor told us to “suit up” in protective clothing as we would soon be rolling out hoses. Instantly, I could sense that some in the group were earnest and serious, while others were here out of obligation. I probably fell somewhere in between, but any enthusiasm I did possess was slowly petering out. Bob was up on his toes, and told me that he was “itching to splash some water around”.

 

The first afternoon was relatively painless, and Bob took great delight in splashing water about. After a hearty dinner in the salubrious dining room, we assembled in the bar. This was where the true character of the attendees revealed themselves. There were a few who drank long and hard, despite the words of warning from the instructors ringing in our ears. The company had given me a per diem of $200, which was an extremely generous allowance in 1990. All meals were supplied, and as there was no way I would be drinking $800 worth of alcohol in four nights, the company generously – albeit unknowingly – bought beers for those whose employers were not quite as magnanimous.

 

The firefighting drills were full on. The CFA guys took great delight in watching a bunch of amateurs wrestle with hoses, crawl through smoke-filled buildings, and fight real fires radiating enormous heat. It was strenuous, thirsty work. I would be lying if I said I gained nothing from the experience, but the memories which remain the clearest are of those incidents which were not in the fire-fighting script.

 

One scenario revolved around a team of five ‘rescuing’ a life-like dummy from a smoke-filled shipping container. After thirty minutes of more, four of us emerged from the container trap-door, masks and breathing apparatus askew, shaking our heads sadly when questioned if we knew the whereabouts of our missing companion, a ratbag named Tim. The concerned instructor threw open the doors of the container. As the smoke dissipated, we saw that Tim had not just rescued the dummy – he was now straddling the object, simulating sex vigorously. The instructor, an elderly wizened fireman, almost collapsed at the knees in horror. “In all my years…” he stammered, amidst howls of laughter and applause from the assembled rogues.

 

On another morning, two fellows from a chemical plant in Sydney caught sight of a tiger snake and dropped a fully-charged fire-hose. As the hose snaked about (more vigorously than the actual snake), blasting water about the pad, the instructor – drenched to the bone by now – screamed to the bloke manning the hydrant “Turn that f***ing water off! And you idiots should pi55 off back to Sydney!” Cue more laughter from the peanut gallery.

 

On the final evening, the head honcho of the CFA arrived. His silver buttons were blinding, and his epaulets laughable. I was slightly disappointed that he did not have a chest full of medals, like Idi Amin. He gave a solemn pre-dinner speech and then asked everyone to charge their glasses, stand, and toast “Her Majesty”. He turned admiringly toward a moth-eaten portrait of the queen. This was one bridge that I refused to cross, and I was the only person who remained seated. We were warned (again) not to drink too much in the bar, lest we fail the “final exam” in the morning. But by dinner’s end most of the group, and the instructors as well, could barely scratch themselves. And anyway, I still had a couple of hundred dollars of the company’s money that I needed to spend. It was a night of carefree hilarity. We finally turned in sometime after 1am.

 

The highlight of the final morning was when one unfortunate soul spewed into his breathing apparatus mask. The CFA guys offered no sympathy, and everyone else offered great mirth. I passed the exam. As did the rest of the class. Of course. The CFA guys knew who was paying the piper. And there was no doubt it was worth more than $200 per day.

 

Note: Fiskville was closed by the Victorian state government in 2015, following controversy over the CFA management using carcinogenic materials on the site. My thoughts are with all employees and families of those who were caught in the cancer cluster.

 

 

You can read more from Smokie HERE

To return to the www.footyalmanac.com.au  home page click HERE

Our writers are independent contributors. The opinions expressed in their articles are their own. They are not the views, nor do they reflect the views, of Malarkey Publications.

Do you enjoy the Almanac concept?
And want to ensure it continues in its current form, and better? To help keep things ticking over please consider making your own contribution.

Become an Almanac (annual) member – CLICK HERE