My phone has been dinging and donging with calls, texts, emails, direct messages. How did you do it? Where can I get a fire pump?

The number of those asking for my firefighting tips is nearly as long as the list of friends needing a place to live. In my Malibu Park neighborhood in California, hundreds of homes were destroyed. Mine is one of the few left standing.

On Nov. 9, my wife, Gardia, was up at 6 a.m. worried about the extreme Santa Ana winds in the forecast. Thirty minutes later, she got a call that a fire was headed toward Malibu. To be safe, she woke up our 16-year-old son, Davis, and told him to pack. Still, the fire announcement wasn’t unusual: Fall is fire season in Malibu.

At 7:30 a.m. the evacuation order came. I got up and, smelling smoke, headed to the toolshed that served as my home office to get my laptop — the only possession I would take. My son and I grabbed garden hoses to water down the property. I dragged the portable water pump out of the garage. An old-time Malibuite and surfer buddy, Tim, once told me he’d used a pump and the water from his swimming pool to save his family home in the 1993 fire. So I got one, and other gear too: masks, fire hoses, a specialized wrench to access the hydrant at the top of the street, and even a flame retardant chemical, Phos-Chek.

I wheeled the pump down to our hot tub and attached the fire hose as Davis drenched the house before the water was shut off to be diverted to fire hydrants. I pulled the cord and the engine sputtered on. There was no pressure. The engine ran, but the pump didn’t pull water out of the spa. I shut it off and started it again. Still nothing.

“Get the Phos-Chek,” Gardia yelled. “Take the hose up to the hydrant.” I grabbed the wrench and headed to the hydrant. I didn’t know what to do.

“Unscrew the cap,” Gardia said. “Then attach the hose.” I followed her instructions.

“Use the wrench now,” she said, pointing at a bolt I’d missed. I yanked the wrench and immediately the hose filled with water.

“Where’d you learn that?” I asked.

“YouTube,” she said. “Last night.”

Back in the garage I grabbed the Phos-Chek. I poured a bunch of the liquid into the canister attached to the fire hose. Gardia turned on the nozzle and blasted our house while Davis and I kept wetting the grounds with garden hoses. Then I noticed the fire was next to us. It flew, accelerated by the super-heated Santa Ana winds.

“We gotta go,” Gardia said, dragging the heavy hose down the driveway behind her and dousing every last inch of the house. She dropped it and got in her car to head to Zuma Beach, three minutes away. As I threw my hose down, fire exploded onto the ground as though it was being thrown at us. Davis and I jumped into my car to follow until I realized I’d left the garden hose on. Stupid as it was, I jumped out of the car to turn it off.

I was pelted with debris and embers. I bent down to turn off the water, and a firenado materialized in front of me. I could hear my son screaming inside the car. I half-crawled to the car and started to drive off when there was a cracking sound. I looked up to see a power pole coming down. It missed the car by a few feet. I carefully steered to avoid the wires dangling overhead.

I don’t remember the rest of the drive down our hill because I was in shock. I’d come close to being killed along with my son. For what? I hadn’t packed a thing of my personal stuff, so it’s not like objects and possessions mattered. It was more like I loved our home, as if it, too, was a part of our family and I wanted it to survive.

I’m glad to have a home to go back to and a place we can squeeze in some of our neighbors who aren’t so lucky.

As for my firefighting tips, I don’t know if I should be sharing those. But if you really want to know, I’ll tell you.

—Robert Kerbeck is a writer and the founder of the Malibu Writers Circle.