Boots. Check. Oxygen mask. Check. Camera. Check.

Wait a minute. Are they seriously putting me in the middle of this fire?

When Onset Fire Captain Raymond Goodwin invited me to check out the department's joint training exercise with Marion Fire, he said he'd put me inside a burning structure so I could take pictures.

I thought he was joking.

When I stopped by Onset Fire on Monday afternoon, wearing a dress, and awkwardly tried on firefighter gear, it became clear that he was not joking.

"The boots will be a little big..." Goodwin told me.

Oh, crap.

I loaded the gear into the back of my subcompact hatchback -- it took up the entire space -- and quickly headed to the store to find an inexpensive digital camera. I wasn't about to melt my digital SLR. And with my gracefulness (or lack thereof), there was a good chance something would melt.

That evening, I grabbed my good camera, my OK-to-melt camera, and arrived in Marion.

I admired all the recruits getting into their gear.

"This must be so exciting for them! This is their first structure fire!" I thought. (Every thought I have ends in an exclamation point because my job is awesome and I can't believe I get to do this stuff.)

Goodwin yelled at me to get into my gear.

"But you said I could take pictures from the outside first!" I yelled back, immediately realizing how stupid that sounded. Get in your gear, you weirdo! You're going into a fire!

I put everything on and hobbled around in pants and boots that were way too big for my 5'1" frame. I felt like a kid trying on dad's clothes.

Goodwin first told the recruits to kneel down inside the metal storage container that was functioning as a burning room. He had them do this without oxygen as the fire began growing, so they could see how the flames and smoke behaved.

I knelt down and found it difficult to balance inside the big boots. My eyes began watering from the smoke. I immediately felt like a wuss.

Then, the recruits took turns bringing a hose into the structure to put out the fire. From the outside, I took pictures of them gearing up, testing the hose, going in, and coming back out after knocking down the flames.

Soon, it was my turn. I still thought Goodwin must be joking.

Before I knew what was happening, it was me testing the hose. It was a crew behind me guiding me through the storage container. It was me kneeling next to Goodwin in front of a big pile of burning hay.

My adrenaline was pumping.

I can't remember what word he used when he yelled at me to lift the lever on the nozzle so I could knock down the flames. But I did it.

The hose sprayed. Ashes went flying into everyone's masks. The flames receded.

We waited.

The fire burned higher again and Goodwin told me to lift the lever.

Ashes flew. The fire was out.

My team behind me backed out with the hose.

I attempted to get up, but with the 30-plus pound oxygen tank and pants and boots that were way too big, I tipped over.

I grabbed Goodwin's arms and he pulled me to my feet.

With adrenaline still pumping, I walked toward the faint light I could see through the smoke.

I crashed into a filing cabinet or something. See? Graceful.

I didn't realize how hot the fire was until I got back into the 70-plus-degree evening air and it actually felt cool.

How is it that these guys and ladies don't just immediately pass out when they go into a burning building? I have nothing but the utmost respect for them.

A recruit patted me on the back and told me I did a good job.

I could only muster "thank you."

I was beaming. That was an amazing eye-opener. And it wasn't even a "real" fire.

Thank you to all of you first-responders -- fire, police, EMS -- for everything you do to keep us safe.

It is extremely rare that you'll read something with my byline that is written in first-person. I'd rather tell other people's stories. But I felt this needed to be said. Thanks again, first-responders!