A Close Call; Way Too Close.

We hear it all the time: how would you really react in a moment of crisis? Would you react sensibly or would you do things that you would heartily scoff at in a calmer, more deliberative moment? Are you really prepared to act in a rational, constructive manner when all your instincts are flailing around in total chaos? I remember a few years ago watching in abject horror as Mojo dove into the ocean to confront a shark as the saner dogs and people scampered in the opposite direction. As Mojo mounted the shark and rode on the back astride the dorsal fin, I found myself marching into the water armed with my “chuckit,” the device I use to hurl tennis balls far out into the ocean for Mojo to retrieve. In that moment of crisis, I foolheartedly concluded the chuckit was the ultimate anti-shark weapon and went into the surf to do battle. Stupid, ill-conceived, not helpful. Fortunately, the shark was as freaked out as I was and made haste to return to deeper waters leaving Mojo behind wondering where his ride went.

But, Saturday morning presented a different sort of events. For a couple of weeks, Lily and I had been hearing odd, loud puffing noises coming from the kitchen. For some totally inexplicable reason, we both attributed these noises to a new device we had which makes club soda with the assistance of a bottle of compressed gas. These air gun-like sounds were surely emanating from this new fangled kitchen gizmo. On a couple of occasions, we even went so far as to take the device outside thinking that if it were to explode at least it would be outside where the harm would be less traumatizing. Sadly, we were mistaken, and hugely so. The club soda device had been improperly accused and was blameless. At ten past seven, when even Mojo is still asleep, the loud puffing noise re-appeared, but this time in earnest. It awakened me with a start. Why? Because the now more urgent puffing actually blew open our bedroom door! In a stupor, I went to the door thinking that maybe it was our guest, young 6 year old Marley – our niece – visiting for a week from Florida. Maybe Marley had gotten up early and had opened our door just to see if we were awake yet. I went out of the room and, thinking I was looking for Marley, headed to the kitchen. There, everything changed. As I stumbled into the kitchen, still half asleep, the smell of gas was overpowering, and it was not the kind that emanates from a club soda making machine. It was the gas cooktop. How did I know? Even in my stupor I could see that the cabinet doors below the cooktop had been blown open and there, underneath, were large blue flames shooting out left and right from the junction box like some kind of demonized, blue-haired Medusa.

What to do? They say that the mind sharpens in its most trying moments. I'm not so sure. Coming out of my stupor at warp speed, my first instinct was to go for the fire extinguisher which, naturally, was buried somewhere in one of our kitchen closets. Hadn't seen it in years let alone have any notion of how to operate it. As I turned toward the closet, seemingly a thousand micro-thoughts crossed my brain: do I immediately awaken everyone in the house and get them out; do I put in a quick emergency call to the fire department; do I just try to blow out the arching flames; do I try to smother the flames; do I have time to read the fire extinguisher instructions should I find the damn device; how many seconds or minutes did we have until the house exploded; do I scream?

Somewhere in the midst of this frenetic exercise in weighing my options, my mind screamed at me, “turn the gas off, stupid”!! Of course, kill the problem at the source. The source in this case is a propane tank that sits outside our house, seemingly miles away in those frozen seconds that I thought could spell the difference between life and death. Clothed in nothing more than my underwear, I sprinted for the door, threw it open, descended the steps and ran around to the side of the house to the tank. I opened its lid and – not having much experience with this mechanism either – looked quizzically and impatiently at the various knobs on top in urgent search of the main shut off valve. I figured which one it should be, turned it viciously, and then spun around to make my way back into the kitchen. Bursting through the door again, I saw instantly that the flames were still having their way, snaking their way around the kitchen cabinet beneath the cooktop. Why, I thought. Had I turned the wrong valve? Do I run out there again? Do I hunt for the fire extinguisher this time?

Don't ask me why, but I decided the better course was for me to dive my head into the endangered, flame-filled cabinet and attempt to blow the flames out. Maybe the flames were still thriving solely on whatever remnants of gas remained in the lines and could be subdued as one might blow out a match. A very large match. I dropped to my knees, stuck my head into the inferno and started blowing. Only later did I reflect on this strategy and, as I have in the past, said to myself: stupid, ill conceived, not helpful. Certainly, this would have been the case had the system decided to explode in my face in that moment, but, then again, I wouldn't have been around to hear the scorn heaped upon me for making such a misguided judgment. Once again, we never know how we're going to react in those moments of crisis. One tries to be level headed, but being level headed is often a function of dispassionate analysis – a luxury, methinks, at times.

As luck would have it, my efforts at a manual solution worked. I got the flames to stop. I stared at the junction box certain it would ignite again. I waited. And, blessedly, nothing followed. Just the sounds of my gasping for breath, something I believe I had neglected to do in the previous minutes.

At this point, I returned to the bedroom where a still sleepy Lily listened in horror to my little drama. Marley, in the next bedroom was wonderfully oblivious to all that had transpired. Mojo wondered what the hold up was in heading for the beach.

I walked to the beach with Mojo still shaken, still wondering what might have happened. I second guessed almost everything I did.

Upon our return from the beach, I found the fire extinguisher, found a readily accessible place for it, and read its instructions. Now, that's something smart, well conceived, and helpful.