Fire

When I was three, the horizon spewed red. It coughed up flames all over the scrubby eucalypts. Perched 200 meters away, fragile as a bird’s nest, our house was perilously close to being engulfed by nature’s wheezing fit.

I remember forming a barricade. We – my mum, dad and I – stood our ground upon the parched lawn. Whilst helicopters water-bombed the bushfire’s fever from overhead, we dampened the grass with three hoses. My hose weapon spat out dregs of a dwindling water supply. Volunteer firefighters eventually extinguished the bushfire. Yet, the blaze also ignited within me a thrill for science that never burnt out.

At age three it was merely “fire.” Now I understand fire as light, combustion, and energy. The flames were emitted photons of light as excited electrons return to their ground state. Ambers and crimsons leaping from the burning timber evidenced traces of sodium and strontium, elements which burn yellow and red due to their atomic spectra. The soaring temperature came from combustion of the eucalyptus trees, an exothermic reaction releasing energy in the form of heat.

Just as I came to understand fire from a scientific perspective, I came to recognize that night from a practical one. My toddler psyche could not grasp the stakes of the fire. Now, I look back and tremble. Old news reports of the blaze detailed how it consumed bushland at fifteen kilometers an hour. I learned how Australian bushfires are known to spit out embers that float in the wind, starting new fires thousands of meters away from the original fire front. I shudder at the thought of such an ember latching onto our front porch. The beautiful isolated wilderness could have condemned my family into a fiery death trap.

Among other factors, the devastation of bushfires compelled my family to leave the Australian bushland for an urban setting. When I was twelve, we moved to a concrete city-state, Singapore. Instead of trees, my view comprised of eighteen-storey condominium blocks and futuristic architecture. The chances of bushfire in a city with such meticulous planning were zero. Yet like a chemical reaction suddenly placed over the flame of a Bunsen burner, this change of environment energised my scientific curiosity.

In chemistry class, we had a unit on the properties of water. The surface tension of water enthralled me. I discovered that the property hinders water from spreading and penetrating flames. Cleverly, fire-suppressant foams reduce water’s surface tension, forming smaller droplets capable of better fire quenching. I often saw Singapore Civil Defense Force fire engines driving around with large foam concentrate tanks - now I could appreciate the technology.

This learning re-ignited the bushfire seared into my memory. How could we make these foams biodegradable since they were to be sprayed into the wilderness? Could the fire from my childhood have been stopped earlier if such a foam had been used instead of water? How many homes or lives in the Californian wildfires could be saved by improving such technology? The immense relevance of science propels me towards a scientific engineering career.

Some chemical reactions never go to completion; that is, they persist indefinitely. As a student and scientist, I hope to emulate this process by continuously satisfying the burning desire to discover and pursue greater scientific understanding.

The spark of curiosity which began in the Australian bushland and intensified in science classrooms in Singapore will burn brighter as I pursue higher education in the United States. My mind will continue flaring, kindled by the ideas and experiences of my peers and professors. As this reaction roars into full force, I eagerly anticipate the final products to be innovated.