The Healing Power of Sandbags

John Boehle

A California volunteer reflects on his first deployment with a disaster relief nonprofit, serving on Team Rubicon’s Los Angeles wildfires response, and becoming part of the TRibe.

Few will look back on losing their job as a positive experience. My kids were much younger the first time it happened, and I was nervous. For several months I filled my free time taking over the school drop-offs, organizing play dates, and administering the mandatory bath routines. I heard that sometimes the importance of a moment doesn’t reveal itself until it is a memory. I really enjoyed that time with my children and I am grateful for the experience.

This time around is different. My daughter is now in college, and I had the pleasure of teaching my son how to drive. I had a grand 50-plus hours of one-on-one quality time driving and learning about my son’s deep love of hip-hop music and all things Kanye West. I suspect his opinion about our time together might vary.

Yet even after driver’s training, networking, interviewing, and job searching, there remains a lot of downtime to be alone with your thoughts. To keep me from feeling sorry for myself I like to work around the house, get outside with the dog, and keep my hands busy. I had been lurking around disaster relief nonprofit Team Rubicon for a few years, but felt I did not have the time to commit.

Then came the recent California wildfires, which gave me a reason to end my personal pity party and find a meaningful way to help out—and not just because I have family who were affected by both the Pacific Palisades fire and the Eaton fire. Donating money was easy, but I now had an unexpected abundance of the most precious resource: time. I saw a news clip of the Palisade fire one evening and in the background walked a person wearing a Team Rubicon t-shirt. 

Team Rubicon is a veteran-led humanitarian organization that serves global communities before, during, and after disasters and crises. The best part? A corporate dad like me could enroll, deploy, and contribute right away during this critical time of need.

I will admit, I was hesitant to intrude on what I thought was a brotherhood of veterans. Afraid I wouldn’t get the lingo, the inside jokes, or the respect. Still, I signed up to become a Greyshirt—as Team Rubicon calls its volunteers—and when the call came to serve on a California wildfires operation, I deployed. 

california wildfires volunteers learn sandbag techniques.
Getting a lesson in the art form of a proper sandbag fold and how to construct a three-tier wall.

Guess what? Nobody cared that I’d spent my career in finance instead of a uniform. None cared or seemed to notice that I’m a civilian—or, as TR calls them, a “kick-ass civilian.” They just thanked me for showing up and put me to work. 

I spent the next three, glorious days in physical labor, camaraderie, and teamwork. No interviews regurgitating my work history, explaining my greatest weakness, or writing cover letters. I was left with a few sore muscles, a great sense of satisfaction, and an overwhelming sense of gratitude.

My first three-day Greyshirt deployment to the Eaton fire in Altadena had several highlights. I met a dedicated group of volunteers who were helping homeowners recover from this devastating disaster with tangible methods to help protect their property from further rain or mud damage. 

A Greyshirt named John taught me the art form of a proper sandbag fold and how to construct a three-tier wall.

A Greyshirt named Dan, who also serves as a Heavy Equipment Operator on some operations with TR, confirmed that the heavy equipment hand signals I learned from my couch watching numerous seasons of Gold Rush were spot on.

And, a Greyshirt and Air Force veteran named Antionette helped us understand the history of her Altadena neighborhood as we visited her now-destroyed childhood kindergarten on the way to a sandbag distribution site.

California wildfires volunteers in front of heavy equipment.
Author John Boehle with Greyshirts Dan and Nick on a post-fires mitigation operation in Los Angeles.

There were a dozen more volunteers who make sure everything works and sh*t gets done behind the scenes and in the field. Thank you too, Mike, Don, Charlene, Matt, and Kevin.

A sandbag wall may be a simple structure, but it carries a deeper meaning—it’s a sign that things are turning, that we are looking toward the future, and that others have your back. It’s makeup—one bag overlapping the next—like a suit of armor, protecting; many small pieces, only meaningful when joined together, like a team. To me, sandbags will now always be a symbol of resilience, of healing, and of hope.

There are months of cleanup ahead and years of rebuilding to restore these ashen plots back to neighborhoods. If you are like me and looking for a different way to contribute, I encourage you to experience the healing power of sandbags. To see what it’s all about, visit https://teamrubiconusa.org/. Or, if you’re also ready to experience the healing power of a sandbag, join me in the Greyshirt ranks.

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