This is an actual event that occurred in December 1995. There is no mention of the trucking company I was working for at the time, and I changed the name of the person in the story. All other information is as accurate as I could be, both in the narrative as well as the news stories or clippings. I have kept this story buried in my mind for years, with several attempts to write it down, only to scrap it later. It has almost been 20 years since the sad event, and here it is for the first time.

After being married for two years, my family moved in 1992 to Santa Maria, California, a small town that sits on the central coast. It is a beautiful town with mild temperatures in the summer, and the winter has the feel of springtime.

At the time of the move, we were living in Bakersfield, and I had about two years of experience driving tankers, hauling and delivering fuel to gas stations and industrial businesses. When a local tanker outfit called me in for an interview, we were excited at the possibility of moving over to Santa Maria, if I was hired.

I was hired

Let's fast forward to December 1995. I was still with the tanker company, and I was given the responsibility to help train new drivers who were hired on — some with no tanker experience, others with no trucking experience. Things were a little less strict then.

John was a new hire who had no tanker experience. As a matter of fact, he had about six months of experience over the road. He decided to get away from OTR because he and his wife just had a newborn son, and he wanted to be home every night.

The owner wanted the various drivers who trained to give him about two weeks and show him how to load at the different refineries that were in the Long Beach area as well as Bakersfield, Fresno and San Jose. Unfortunately, John was a bit of a hothead and thought that he knew more than he actually did.

For instance, he would challenge me about certain safety aspects that were vital for the safe operation of a tanker, both when driving and loading. Often times when John was behind the wheel, he would be moving way too fast for what the traffic conditions would allow and would not pay attention to what was ahead of him.

A certain curve on a highway on ramp in Ventura that company drivers regularly used after unloading gasoline at a station in that surrounding area needed extreme caution in entering. On two occasions in that first week alone, I made sure to stress that this curve requires you to slow down to 20 miles per hour. Each driver who trained would note any safety concerns on our evaluation slip that was to be filled out and turned in at the end of each training week.

There was one other driver who was training John as well, and he had the training responsibility for John on his final week. Circumstances (such as different shifts) never allowed us to discuss what our thoughts were regarding John and his progress. I realize now that was a mistake.

Nevertheless, after John's two weeks were up, my boss asked me if I felt John was ready to go it alone. I told him that just as I had noted on the weekly evaluation sheet — at that time one week into his training — John was still not certified at a couple of refineries. Plus, on my safety evaluation, I checked the box "needs more training." My boss nodded and did not say anything more on the subject. I just carried on and thought nothing more of it.

Tragic accident

On Saturday morning Dec. 3, 1995, I was up and lounging around until I left shortly after noon for my 15-minute drive to the yard. The radio in my pickup was usually tuned to AM talk radio, and it would give regular weather or traffic information reports, also any breaking news that was warranted.

Like most days, about 10 minutes away from work I pulled into a certain fast-food drive-thru and ordered a large soda. While waiting for one other car that was in front of me at the pickup window, I heard a news break on the radio. A reporter came on and said, "We have more on that tanker explosion story that came to us earlier in Ventura County," or something to that effect. All I can recall is what the other reporter who came on said:

"Our initial reports on a massive explosion in Ventura County is confirmed. It was the result of a tanker truck that lost control on Highway 101 on a ramp and ended up plunging over the embankment and exploding on contact. This occurred, from our initial reports, around 11:45 this morning, just about an hour ago. Traffic is at a standstill until the fire is completely out. Reports are coming in even as we speak. We will report more on this as soon as more facts come in."

We who drive big trucks always recognize the inherent dangers of this profession. Therefore, as responsible ones for our own safety, and others of course, we are sensitive to any report of a driver who has lost his or her life in an accident. And as a tanker driver who hauls flammables — in my case about 18 years — I know an explosion that emits from a tanker carrying gasoline is a violent and catastrophic event. There could not be a survivor if you were anywhere near that explosion.

The news about the tanker explosion was on my mind all the way to the yard. Normally, I would drive to where my rig was parked and take out my belongings before parking and going inside to sign in and get my dispatch orders for the day. But after driving down the row of trucks that were in the yard, my assigned truck was no where to be found. At that moment, my stomach churned, and a wave of nausea came on to me. I remember saying out loud, "Please, God, not let it be."

Breaking news

The official news cited that the driver was killed in the explosion. It was John, alright, and it was our company truck to which I was assigned. Just over a week prior, it was used in his training.

About an hour later is when the news told where this accident occurred — the transition ramp to Highway 101 North, where 33 West comes to an end. We also learned that he jackknifed and was probably going to fast around that corner. The truck flipped over, and the tanker fell about 45 feet to the bottom, next to a river.

The partial load he carried on the rear compartment of the rear trailer also contributed to this accident. It was estimated to be around 250 gallons of 87-octane gas, remaining from his last delivery, where it would not fit.

We later learned he had a small spill at that location because he neglected to ascertain, before he dropped any fuel, to see if it all would fit by looking at the tank charts. And since he should have been finished about 9 a.m. and on his way back to Santa Maria, it was likely he was hurrying to get back as soon as he could. There were no phone calls about the spill or him running late.

I did not work that day, since there was no available truck. Even if there was, I probably would have turned the load down. My boss got the call first, when he was transferred to the authorities who called sometime after the fire was finally extinguished and the company and truck number was somehow determined. Later they found a fuel receipt with company information.

That was around 12:35 p.m., just about the same time I heard the name of our tanker company on the radio while sitting in the locker room area. About 45 minutes later, I was coming out of the driver's room, where I saw my boss sitting on a metal fold-up chair next to a drinking fountain. His hands were placed over his face, and I knew he was sobbing.

I walked up to him, put my hand on his shoulder, gave it a mild pat, then started for the door. I went out to my pickup, started it up and was home in about 11 minutes. When I pulled up, I noticed that my wife and three young daughters were at home, after spending a few hours that morning in a church activity. When my youngest saw me walk up to the front door, she jumped up and ran to the screen door and flung it open and said, ''Daddy, you're home!"

Concluding thoughts

To this day, I wish John would have called me that early morning, since he had all phone numbers for the company and drivers. I wish he would have called to say he was going to be late, for the reasons I cited. I could have informed him to stay put, don't leave until he checks first with the dispatcher or the boss. If he had done that, this accident might not have occurred.

A contingency was set up just for that scenario. This was built into his training process as well. I remember talking to him about this protocol, and we had training tapes that he viewed when he was hired. About 10 miles away off Highway 33, in the opposite direction of Highway 101, sat another station where we could drop any remnants of gasoline we had left over.

A phone call would have at least kept him put for a while, maybe changing the whole unfortunate disaster. I cried for John and his newborn son, who would never know his daddy. I cried for his wife, who lost her husband, her lover and bread-winner.

My life did go on, but it changed forever the way I would do my job. I continued to haul flammables for another 14 years. During that time, I had zero accidents that were a result of my negligence — only two minor scrapes that I could not avoid.

Safety was always my chief concern, and I took it seriously. I received many safety awards for teaching others the proper procedures in driving or loading gasoline in and out of refineries.

If someone was not ready to go it alone, he or she would not go it alone until I was satisfied. My boss always came to me and listened to my report, and usually a month of training did it. Never again would I compromise my standing or my reputation as a safety-first type of driver.