CFA

The Advanced Pumping Course

At first it seemed too simple, water in and water out.

Make sure it’s primed and crack the valves. “Water on.” came the shout.

There’s water in the tank, but only an amateur would choose it

The cocky’s built a dam just for me, it’d be a shame not to use it.

So they laid a lovely suction hose, then shot through, branch in hand

To leave me to just turn some valves and help save this scorched land.

So I scratched my helmet, looked at the valves, looked at the whole bloody truck

With its gauges and pipes and bells and lights - ahhhhhh ffffffooey

“Water on!” cried my eager friends, more enthusiastic now.

I know what they’re thinking: ‘He’s been in the brigade a year, what now?’

‘We’re doing the work, all he has to do is man the bloody pump.’

“WATER ON!!” they pleaded, and then I’m hip and shouldered - thump.

So I shuffle my boots, drag some hose and go home to hit the sauce.

And then salvation - The Advanced Pumping Course!

Next thing I’m on the course, waiting to be reborn,

In front of my new instructor - Graeme Bloody Bourne.

A man of few opinions, but well thought out, if stark:

“The Mets are stuffed, they couldn’t find a fire in the dark!”

And when he told of St.Kilda pier, his eyes went round and round:

“Not enough water?!? If they’d fallen sideways, they would’ve bloody drowned!”

The course went on, week after week, I absorbed his every word.

Facts, figures, anecdotes, from the sublime to the absurd.

I did my best, God knows I tried, I memorized some numbers.

I listened hard, although there were occasional evening slumbers.

When we asked a simple question, a detailed answer we got.

Here was a man who’d been there and got it done when the going was hot.

Of vortices and valves he spoke, of venturi, ventilation, volutes,

Vapours and viscosity - ‘til I’m back shuffling my boots.

And then that awful Sunday. We took turns in stepping up.

He had an empty tank, We just had to fill it up.

By then I thought I’d worked it out, but I hesitated, forlorn.

Had he spotted me? You bet he had: Graeme Bloody Bourne.

“I saw you hesitate, I thought you’d worked it out?” he said.

So I thought I’d better work it out, if it kills me stone dead.

Next morning on the train I tried to map the flow:

One pump, one tank, two valves that count, four ways the water can go.

Two times two is four; by God I think I’ve worked it out.

Start the pump, check for prime, then water in and out.

Only two ways in, from suction or from tank,

Only two ways out, delivery valves or tank.

Then everything else fell into place, all his bloody numbers.

Like a man possessed, I pumped and listened, no more evening slumbers.

From chaos came deliverance, from the drought of ignorance borne

by the smiling Saint Graeme, Graeme Bloody Bourne.

Boolarra 30-01-2009 Young St after the storm. Me at far right Photo Joe Sabljak