It was just over two years ago – not long after a westbound car struck Cole Coppola’s bicycle near the crest of the 17th Street Bridge and knocked him into the Indian River Lagoon below – that I spoke with David Dangerfield about the divers who recovered the teen’s lifeless body.
Dangerfield, who lost his battle with post-traumatic stress syndrome and depression over the weekend, was an Indian River County Fire Rescue captain and senior member of the agency’s Dive Team. Besides serving as a Field Training Officer for the local special-ops unit, he also traveled to train public-safety divers across America.
His vast knowledge, unfailing commitment and 25 years’ experience was so respected that Fire Rescue Assistant Chief Brian Burkeen chose Dangerfield to talk about the physical, psychological and emotional challenges regularly confronted by the agency’s divers.
Our conversation provided real-life, first-person insights into the danger, difficulty and demands of an often-unappreciated job that can offer exhilarating rewards but also take a devastating toll on the psyches of the men and women who do it.
“We usually know before we don the gear whether it’s a rescue or recovery, but even when you know you’re dealing with a recovery, it’s still sad for us,” Dangerfield told me. “We know it’s difficult for the family, and we’re very sensitive to that. But, not to diminish the family’s pain in any way, it’s difficult for us, too.
“It sticks with you.”
Those four words echoed in my memory Sunday, when I learned that Dangerfield had taken his own life the night before, shortly after posting on his Facebook page an ominous message about the impacts of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
“PTSD for Firefighters is real,” he wrote, adding, “27 years of deaths and babies dying in your hands is a memory that you will never get rid of. It haunted me daily until now.”
Dangerfield then drove to a wooded area along State Road 60 – midway between I-95 and Yeehaw Junction – parked his pickup truck and made a 911 call to tell dispatchers where he could be found.
Sheriff’s deputies rushed to the area and located the truck, only to find the battalion chief’s body a short distance away in the woods. He was dead, the victim of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. He was 49.
Based on early comments in response to his Facebook post, some friends seemed to know Dangerfield was troubled and became alarmed, reaching out to him on the social-media site:
– “Dave, call one of us. We love you and are willing to help or just listen if that’s what you need. xoxo”
–”If you need to talk to someone, I’m here for you. I have dealt with this for a long time. Sometimes you need to talk it out and cry it out. Call me.”
–”Dave, please don’t do anything crazy. Call and talk to someone. Call me if you want. Please.”
As the tragic news of Dangerfield’s death spread – County Emergency Services Director John King sent an email late Saturday night to alert his co-workers – the tone of the Facebook comments expanded, reflecting an array of sentiment.
There was shock and disbelief, sadness and sympathy, and even nostalgia from friends who recalled good times they had shared with him.
There were condolences and prayers for Dangerfield’s family in the wake of the heartbreaking loss, as well as a genuine outpouring of love and affection for a man who masked his pain with a smile and a relentless drive to help people in need.
There were also expressions of concern for others, particularly first responders and especially firefighters, battling the same PTSD demons.
“This job throws a lot of baggage on your back,” wrote someone who apparently is familiar with the effects of trauma and stress on firefighters. “Nothing wrong or weak about getting help and being happy. If you’re carrying some load, honor your friend Dave and get some help.”
That seemed to be the message Dangerfield wanted to deliver in his final Facebook post. A statement released Monday morning by John O’Connor, president of the International Association of Fire Fighters’ local chapter, read:
“With his family’s blessing, we cannot ignore David’s last known words. PTSD is becoming more widely recognized as a major issue amongst firefighters, even though it has always existed. We, as a fire service family, are working hard to break the stigma attached to asking for help.
“We can only hope that David’s passing will remind those in pain to seek help before it’s too late.”
O’Connor, who wrote that Dangerfield’s brief Facebook post “speaks volumes,” also provided jarring statistics about the damage the disorder is inflicting on those in his profession.
He cited a report in the Journal of Occupational Health that approximately 20 percent of firefighters and paramedics suffer from PTSD. He also included a 2015 Florida State University study that revealed 46.8 percent of the firefighters surveyed had thought about suicide, 19.2 percent had suicide plans and 15.5 percent had made suicide attempts. The study concluded that those with PTSD are six times more likely to attempt suicide than others.
Like law-enforcement officers, firefighters and paramedics often encounter grisly, gut-wrenching scenarios – automobile crashes, house fires, drownings and shootings – some involving children, even babies. Many, if not most, of these first responders take those haunting images home with them.
Despite their training, courage and a dedication to duty that enable them to perform heroically under pressure in dangerous, life-and-death situations, they’re also human.
As I wrote in my column on the Dive Team members: “They have fears. They have hearts. They have families.”
They cope the best they can.
In our conversation two years ago, Dangerfield told me Fire Rescue does provide counselors for divers struggling with the psychological and emotional impacts of the job. More often than not, however, team members troubled by a particular operation opt to talk among themselves about their experiences.
“We help each other out,” he said.
Sources in the local firefighter community said they believed Dangerfield had sought and was getting professional help in dealing with PTSD, but I was unable to confirm it.
And, by all accounts, Dangerfield – whose father, Bruce, spent 17 years as the Vero Beach Police Department’s animal control officer before retiring earlier this year – was a good man who devoted his life to public service.
In addition to serving as a firefighter for nearly three decades and working with dive teams here and in other communities, Dangerfield donated countless hours to charitable causes.
He created the popular Firefighters’ Charity Chili Cook-off, co-founded the Wounded Warrior Charitable Foundation of Indian River and annually participated in the Big Heart Brigade that fed hungry families on Thanksgiving Day.
Professionally, he volunteered for deployments to Colorado and other areas to help other agencies fight wildfires.
O’Connor wrote that Dangerfield was a “treasured teacher, mentor and brother to every Fire Rescue team member he met.”
It’s no surprise that, as of Monday, his Facebook post was “shared” more than 1,300 times and prompted nearly 400 comments. His family and friends can take some solace in knowing so many people cared.
Perhaps, once they recover from the jolt of such a loss, their grief will be eased knowing he is no longer suffering, no longer haunted.
Still, it’s tragically ironic that a man who was so dedicated to saving lives couldn’t ultimately save his own.
“While there’s nothing like saving a life,” Dangerfield told me two years ago, “it can be emotionally devastating when you know it’s too late and that the victim has already passed.”
