I AN AND I checked out of our hotel, then spent the afternoon at Anne’s Bed and Coffee on the Lower East Side. A car was scheduled to take us to the airport in a few hours for our 7:00 P.M. flight to Florida—probably a good time to figure out where we’d sleep once we arrived.

We laughed at having left it so late—the futile laugh that comes when you’re extremely tired and everything, including your not-so-ideal situation, suddenly becomes hilarious.

When the producers at the Rachael Ray show made our travel arrangements, I’d mentioned that my next job was in Fort Walton Beach, Florida. Judging by the scale of the Google map I had open at the time, the larger city of Pensacola didn’t seem too far away. I’d suggested it may be easier to book the flight there, and that’s what they did.

Turned out it’s over an hour away. Because we’d arrived so late, there was no way of getting to Fort Walton Beach that night.

We had a couple of options. Ian found a cheap hotel near the airport. We could spend the night there and catch a bus the next morning to Fort Walton Beach. That way we wouldn’t have to summon the energy to meet anybody new, could catch up on emails and take some time to relax. Or we could check to see if there were any “couch surfers” in the area, see if we could crash at their place, and take our chance on the possibility of adventure.

CouchSurfing.org is a website created by travelers. Those who sign up know what it’s like to arrive in a foreign city with no place to stay while trying to survive by spending as little cash as possible. All “couch surfers” have an individual profile on the website that tells you a bit about them, their previous couchsurfing experience, how to contact them, and their current availability to help other couch surfers by offering a couch, floor, or spare bed while in their city. Members can also vouch for other members, which increases the security of the whole deal.

“So, Ian. What do you want to do?”

Ian hesitated. It’d been a long couple of weeks. Each of us wanted the other to let him off the hook. But it was the easy route. We’d be copping out. And we both knew it.

I adopted the tone of a motivational speaker and declared, “Life requires effort, Ian. Let’s go on an adventure.”

I searched the couch-surfing website in the Pensacola area and sent out some requests. Fifteen minutes later I got a call from Lacey and Ryan, a couple in their junior year at college. “We already have two couch surfers who are biking across the country staying with us tonight, but you guys are more than welcome to stay too,” she said.

Turned out they lived five minutes from the airport and even offered to pick us up. Thank goodness for southern hospitality. Now we just needed to figure out how to get to Fort Walton Beach the next day. But there’d be plenty of time for that later.

In my last contact with Danny, the captain at the FWB Fire Department who offered me the position, he wrote, “Sean, if you can somehow make it to the fire dept on Friday my truck will be there and the keys will be in the console. Also I will have my camper set up for you and Ian at our other station, you can get directions from the guys at the station.”

If we somehow make it to the station? I thought. I guess he figured that by Week 47 I should be able to navigate through any city. Fair enough. Though an address would have been a good first clue.

The next day, Ryan saved us again and drove us to Fort Walton Beach. When we arrived, we decided to go for dinner and drinks. One drink soon became several. By the time we stumbled out the door, it was well after midnight, and my first shift started at 7:00 A.M.

Ryan dropped us at the station, and sure enough, there was Danny’s camper parked out back for us. Inside was one comfortable-looking double bed already set up and made. Clean folded blankets were set on various cushions and tables that transformed into beds—way too much effort at that time of night.

“I call the double bed,” Ian quickly declared.

“No way, man.” I hopped onto the bed.

“Yeah, right. I called it. Get up! Make up one of the other beds.”

“Dude, I’m not moving,” I said, already lying on my side with my eyes closed. “You’re welcome to share it with me, but I’m not going anywhere.”

“You are such a thief,” Ian said as he flopped down on the other side. “Well, you better stay on your side then.”

“No—you better stay on your side.”

“Fine.”

“Fine then.”

You’d think that the benefit of sleeping in the parking lot of where you work is that you can wake up five minutes before you start. It didn’t help me.

I woke up parched. My head pounded, and my mouth felt like I’d eaten an entire box of saltines before I went to sleep. Not the best form to start my first day as a firefighter.

Outside, the firefighters were ready for me. They rolled into the garage one by one, each beefier than the last. There was no wasting time.

“So, Sean, you ready for some training?” asked firefighter Larry.

“Well, I had a pretty late night last night, we went out for some drinks and … ”

They chuckled, and I trailed off. I knew that chuckle could only mean one thing—I was in trouble.

I suited up in all the gear: pants, boots, jacket, gas tank, helmet. Together it weighed about sixty pounds. After I put on the gas tank, I thought, Hey, this isn’t so heavy. Five minutes later, my opinion changed.

First, I hauled out the fire hose. They pressurized it, and I ran with it slung over my shoulder for about a hundred feet. By “ran” I mean exerting myself as if in a full-out sprint, though with the weight of the hose and my gear, my effort translated into a full-out crawl. Next I tried the “Denver Drill,” a technique used to lift an unresponsive firefighter out a window to safety. I dragged a 180-pound dummy, climbed the seventy-five-foot ladder, crawled into the training building with the hose, and sprayed the interior.

I felt like I was going to pass out from exhaustion. Or be sick to my stomach and come up short in a valiant attempt to reach the toilet. Either way, it wasn’t going to be pretty.

I wanted to show them that I could hack it. I pushed myself as hard as I could. And they pushed back, trying to break me down. These drills would have been difficult in my final year playing varsity sports, let alone hungover.

I discreetly said to Ian, “Let’s do … Sean’s thoughts. Tell them … you want to … film.” I struggled to breathe, let alone compose a complete sentence. The gas tank felt like it had tripled in weight. The slightest nudge and I’d surely fall flat on my face. Ian got the message.

“Before we start the next drill, I want to get Sean’s thoughts on camera about the job so far,” he announced to the group. Honest enough. It was something that we did each week.

We walked away from the group of firefighters.

“Okay, Sean, what did you want to say?” Ian pointed the camera at me.

“Dude, just pretend you’re filming me. I’m exhausted. I swear I’m going to puke.”

Ian smirked and held up the camera. I struggled to catch my breath. “Serious, man, don’t make me laugh. I feel like I’m going to die.”

Several “takes” later, we made our way back to the group and I tried my best to appear as if I had everything under control. But with my red face, sickly bags under my eyes, and my sudden interest in learning about every aspect of the fire truck before starting the next drill, it was obvious—I was hurting. What made the experience even more humbling was that I knew they were taking it easy on me.

That afternoon, we finally met Danny.

“Thanks so much for having us, Danny,” I said. “We really appreciate you setting up the camper. It’s perfect.”

“No problem. How’d ya sleep?”

“I slept great. That bed is super-comfortable,” I said.

“Oh, so you got the good bed.” He smiled at Ian as if to say, “Tough luck.”

“Actually, we shared the bed,” Ian said matter-of-factly.

Danny had a puzzled look on his face. “You guys know that camper sleeps ten people, right?”

We realized that sharing beds is probably not something that firefighters regularly do.

I have a lot of respect for firefighters. Not only do they put their lives at risk for others, but the physical fitness they must maintain is truly impressive. Firefighters are tough. I’d say many of them are intimidating. But those whom I worked with were extremely good people. They have integrity, a great sense of what is right, and I’m sure they know how much what they’re doing matters.

Ian and I were quickly accepted into their close-knit group. All the firefighters at the department are like family—their profession demands that they work as a team.

“No matter where you go—you could be stranded in Illinois, California, Washington, New York—if you’re a firefighter who needs help, they’ll always open the doors. I was in the military, but the camaraderie and the brotherhood of fire service, you don’t find that in any other job,” said the batallion chief, Dave.

And like all families, they have their differences.

“We could be ready to punch a guy out in the TV room, but when that tone goes, we’re on that truck, and it’s all left behind,” said firefighter Calabro.

My second twenty-four-hour shift got off to a much better start than the first. We walked into the office and met with Dave, the battalion chief. With his tough demeanor, graying hair, and handlebar mustache, Dave was the kind of guy you’d expect to see on a Harley-Davidson. Leaning back in his chair with a stern look on his face, Dave asked, “Sean, what is your objective here?”

I couldn’t help but feel nervous and started into a rather long-winded formal-job-interview-type answer about One-Week Job, why I’d started it, where I’d been, and what I hoped to get out of my time at the fire station. His serious face made it difficult to gauge his reaction. When I finished, he paused as if in deep reflection. Then, calmly, he replied, “Well, that’s great. My objective at the moment is to get breakfast.” We all laughed, then went to a local diner, where he treated us to breakfast.

That afternoon I learned that fighting fires is nothing compared with getting eight men who love eating to agree on what they’re going to cook for dinner. Ian and I decided to let them sort it out and went back to the camper.

On our way, I said to Ian, “We should bring some food for the guys to help out with dinner.”

Realizing that we hadn’t been eating very healthy on the road, Ian made an earnest suggestion: “How about we bring a fruit plate?”

I thought back to our conversation with Danny about the previous night’s sleeping arrangements. “How about some buffalo wings instead?”