Saturday, December 2: Prologue
6:30pm I drive the long way around the Main Street area to get home, having driven all afternoon back from a morning speaking engagement in San Francisco. It’s arguably my favorite day of the year in the city of Ventura, California: the Winter Wine Walk is a big street festival during which they block off a 6-block area of Main Street and put a big concert stage at the main intersection in town, Main and California. That intersection is one block downhill from City Hall, and about a 10-minute walk from our house. When I arrive home we can hear the music from our open windows on a beautiful night: a mix of Christmas music, pop, and classic rock. We walk down the hill to check out the scene, and downtown Ventura is hopping. From 2-6pm most merchants had wine tastings, partnering with local wineries and breweries (you have to buy a wristband for $50 to partake; since I was traveling we weren’t able to). The streets are filled with revelers, the city of Ventura kicking off the holiday season.
6:45 We arrive at California and Main. We missed the exact beginning, but there’s fake snow blowing in the air. For about an hour just after it gets dark the city blows snow around that intersection while the band plays. A juggler on stilts dances to the music along with some bikini-clad Mrs. Clauses on pedestals. Everyone is smiling, from face-painted children with candy canes to beleaguered wine walkers holding their umpteenth glass of the day. Everyone has their phone out, spinning to take panoramic Instagrams or Snapchat stories so that friends around the world can enjoy this sand-and-snow scene. Look uphill and City Hall is majestically lit on the hill looking down on the party. Look downhill a few blocks and there’s the Pacific Ocean glistening in the moonlight. This scene chokes me up every year: Ventura has everything, a vibrant, adorable downtown, the beach, the mountains, perfect weather, and even amidst that some snow for Christmas. I soak in the scene: I’m so lucky to live here.
Monday, December 4: The Fire
8:11pm My Aunt Joan texts from Connecticut. “Just heard about the large fire in Ventura County. Praying you are safe and far from the flames. 🙏🏻”
We just sat down to dinner and Lindsey hates when I touch my phone during dinner. But it’s Aunt Joan and it’s after 11pm her time so I want to at least respond. I Google the fire – it’s in Santa Paula, a city about 15 miles away. Most of my life in Southern California revolves around the coast: probably 80% of my commute is on roads that directly hug the beach. I live within a mile of the ocean, and the two offices I report to are at least as close. So while Santa Paula is 15 miles away, in my mind it might as well be Arizona – I just don’t know anything about it. I respond “Yikes…looks like it’s a couple towns away but I’m sure we’ll be smelling smoke soon.” We get back to eating dinner and I make a mental note to check on the fire when we’re done. The wheels start turning: but wait…if it’s already news that people are getting in Connecticut, it’s probably a bigger deal than I’m making it. I’d better check on this soon…I’ll eat fast and won’t go for seconds.
8:22pm My friend Laura texts. She lives maybe an hour away in the San Fernando Valley closer to LA. “Wow.. I’m just hearing about the fire up by you guys! This wind sure isn’t helping either… Let us know if you need a place to go!” We’re just about done with dinner. I’ll turn on the news and start looking on Twitter. As they say, where there’s smoke there’s fire, and two texts over 11 minutes means there’s smoke.
8:25pm I get up to rinse the dishes (I’m a great rinser!) and put them in the dishwasher. I’ll run upstairs to change out of work clothes and then start looking into the fire. We keep the windows upstairs open pretty much year round. As I get halfway up the stairs the smell of smoke hits me pretty hard. I close a window and while I have my drawers open to change clothes I grab a few things and throw them in a duffle bag…just in case.
8:30pm Downstairs I grab my laptop and flip the channel from Monday Night Football to the K-CAL 9 news. I tell Lindsey “it’s really smoky upstairs…we should keep an eye on this.” She’s doing some Christmas shopping online and crafting an email to a friend of ours – the woman who owns the safari company we booked our honeymoon with – just to inquire about what it might entail to get a safari travel agent job someday. She’s reading off proposed sentences to me and asking questions about whether my siblings would like this candle or that book. I’m half-listening, half-watching TV, half-skimming Twitter’s “Thomas Fire” hashtag (and 100% bad at both multitasking and math).
8:45pm The news suggests that Ventura County residents sign up for “reverse 911” service, where the county will call your phone with evacuation and emergency alerts. I sign up for both me and Lindsey.
8:50pm It sounds like this thing is moving pretty fast. I tell Lindsey I’m going to go pack for real. Upstairs I start with clothes but then realize that if we evacuate we may never get back. I’m close to the “if you only have X minutes to take things out of the house for a fire, what do you take?” drill. What do you take? I grab the championship ring I “won” as a salesperson with the 2004 Detroit Pistons…that’s something I couldn’t replace and that I want to pass on to my kids someday. I dig in a drawer for a few favorite t-shirts – the “Woo, Pig, Sooey” Arkansas shirt that I picked up 10 years ago at a family reunion in Hot Springs when the airline lost my luggage has been a family favorite for years. I laugh a little – my brother, my sister, and a few cousins will think it’s hysterical that I made a special point to save this t-shirt from a fire. But otherwise I’m a little paralyzed. What’s really that important to pack right now? Do I go for high dollar value? High sentimental value? Practical value? I’m not panicked yet and we don’t have any immediate need to move, so I guess I’ll think about it.
9:00pm It’s funny how you can live in a neighborhood and not know very much about areas within 10 miles. I’m now addicted to the Twitter accounts following the police and fire scanners and posting updates. And as they call out roads and neighborhoods that are within 10 miles of where I live, I have to Google just about all of them. They’re issuing mandatory evacuations every few minutes now it seems, but nothing I recognize or nothing that seems all that close to us. Reports now say that “Ventura may be affected by morning” which strikes my senses of both calm and fear – I guess we have some time, but how in the world could I just go to sleep tonight knowing that there’s a good chance a fire is on its way with us in its direct path?
9:08pm The @CAFireScanner twitter account posts that the fire is marching west and that fire officials don’t expect to be able to stop it before it reaches eastern Ventura. We live on the western edge of Ventura but still…that’s a little close for comfort. The post references “Sexton Canyon Road” as the first place that the fire department thinks it might be able to stop the fire’s spread westward. I Google it…it’s not that far, maybe 6 miles? And if that’s the FIRST place they THINK they MIGHT be able to stop it, that’s not good news. This thing is moving fast. I need to convince Lindsey to start packing. At this point I’m mentally committed to evacuation…it’s probably a matter of “when” and not “if.”
9:14pm Lindsey has been working on that letter for a while now. She sends it to her sister in Seattle for a quick proofread. She’s ready to turn her attention to the fire now. I tell her what I’ve been reading and how far ahead Twitter seems to be of the TV news.
9:15pm Lindsey texts her sister that we’re probably going to evacuate. She starts packing a bag.
9:30pm We’re in our bedroom putting clothes and personal items into bags. The view from the bedroom (and from the family room below it) is what sold us on this house – you can see the ocean, the Channel Islands, the mountains, and downtown Ventura. Sunrise is my favorite – we face south to the ocean so the sunlight starts to silhouette the mountains, then the twinkles start on the water, and for a few minutes there’s this heavenly glow as the city and the islands “wake up.” Some sunsets are even more beautiful, with the entire seascape lit up with that perfect hue of pink, the mountains and islands so clear and vivid. Tonight you can barely see to Main Street, three blocks downhill – we’re clouded in a wall of smoke. I stare for a minute or two: is this the last view I’ll ever see from this window? I want one more sunrise, one more glorious sunset, one more street festival on Main Street with live music and a vibrant downtown piping through the window, accompanied by a cool ocean breeze. If this is the last view, did I fully appreciate the beautiful ones as much as I could? I think of the sunsets I missed watching football or staring into my phone, the Saturday morning sunrises I slept through. I feel guilty, and sad. Please let me have one more.
9:45pm I’m putting things into the car now. My duffle bag of clothes and championship ring is in there. I put my work laptop bag in there…if I lose the house, I’d better keep this job! I grab a handful of collared shirts on hangers and lay those in the backseat. Beneath the hangers in the closet is a pair of dress shoes…I scoop those and throw them at the feet of the passenger seat. It’s real now – packing bags is one thing, but putting them in the car feels like a big step. Lindsey texts our next-door neighbor to ask if they’re packing. They’re not as worried: the official word is that the fire wouldn’t get to us until morning, so they’re planning to sleep in their clothes just in case they get the emergency alert. I feel a little silly: am I panicking out of nothing? The smell of smoke is thick in the garage…I don’t think I’m overreacting. Better safe than sorry. Lindsey wonders: do we really need to load up the cars if the neighbors aren’t? I think about it. “The happiest part of my morning tomorrow will be unpacking this car” because we didn’t have to evacuate, I say. Let’s keep packing, just in case.
10:01pm The power goes out. Okay this is real now. Like I said, we can see the city from our windows. Everything is black. It’s not just us. We grab flashlights – Lindsey is such a great planner she knows exactly where they are! We don’t have internet or TV anymore so it’s 4G on our phones for news. I’m glad I used the car charger on the way home from work…I’m at 80-some percent battery.
10:15pm Twitter says the fire has spread into Ventura. In less than 2 hours since we learned about it, it’s made up more than half the distance from where it started to where we live. It’s time to get serious: I grab the two suits I have in my closet, including my wedding suit, and throw them in the car. I grab Lindsey’s wedding dress out of the guest room closet and put that in, too. My laptop is useless right now without power…that goes underneath the drivers seat. I realize that our garage door is electric. My wife is a little handier than I am..I call her out to the garage and we disconnect the door from the motor so that we can manually roll up the door and get our cars out. I keep asking myself – somewhat morbidly I guess – what would be the one regret I’d have as the flames consumed me: I should have gotten the cars out sooner? I should have evacuated before everyone else did and traffic got crazy? I went back into the house to grab just one more thing? What would that thing be? Let’s get it now. We may still have a couple hours, but however much time we have is the time we have to eliminate regrets.
10:30 We sit down for a few minutes. It’s weird – we vacillate between frenzied packing and just kind of numb paralysis. Is this real? Are we overreacting? Are we reacting fast enough? Our new king mattress is on the floor – we got spoiled with big king mattresses in our wedding and honeymoon hotels so we just used some wedding money to buy one. The bed frame is being delivered tomorrow. We sit there and look out the window from the ground, then lay down for a minute with Lindsey’s head on my chest. I can’t remember if we talked about anything or just lay there. It’s dark and we’re a little numb. It’s a really strange feeling: Lindsey is still hopeful that the fire will pass us. I’m committed to evacuating, wondering when we’ll have to leave. Because of that, I want to leave soon…why wait here and regret not getting ahead of it? She’s conscientious: she’s “on call” at work until 7am and wants to make sure she doesn’t abandon her responsibility for nothing. I tell her we need to get up and get moving.
10:45 The fire has doubled from 5,000 acres to 10,000 acres in the last hour, and the police/fire scanners now predict it will reach Ventura by 1am. You always hear about that “if you could only carry a few things out of the house in a fire, what would you take?” thought exercise. This is it. What do I want? So many possessions seem so trite and inconsequential right now. I don’t have photo albums – everything is digital these days so I have my laptop and my phone. I run to the “exercise room” and grab my Ironman finishers hats, my Boston Marathon jacket – I dreamed of these things over so many hours of training. I grab the watch that my company gave me for my fifth anniversary there: the same kind that Barack Obama wears. Lindsey and I grab our framed wedding invitation and the painting of the elephant that we bought on our honeymoon in Africa. She’s getting practical now, grabbing the air mattress and some blankets. I’m a little paralyzed – what’s irreplaceable? What will I regret not grabbing? I look at a few things: books I love, autographs, my triathlon bike, my cycling shoes. I should probably just be grabbing anything that I even consider worthy of thinking about, but some seem too big and others just don’t seem important enough. I’m probably missing something obvious. Lindsey yells that she has the passports and our box of mortgage paperwork. I’m glad I married her…I don’t know that I would have thought of those.
11:05 Our neighbor texts that the fire has hit Shell Road, which is 5 miles north of us. The fire started 15 miles east of us. It has already covered the entire horizontal distance. Now it’s just a matter of whether it comes this far south. About a mile south of us is the evacuation center, the place they’re sending everyone to be safe. But that’s a big mile: that’s all the way down on the beach, and we’re just far enough up this hill that there’s a tree-and-dry-grass-filled park right across the street from us. That one mile to the beach isn’t very flammable, but most of those five miles between us and the fire is. I can’t help but think that the probability is high that the fire reaches us; Lindsey doesn’t want to leave…she can see the evacuation center from here, so how can we not be safe where we are? Our neighbor says not to worry too much: we’ll be notified when the evacuation is mandatory. Lindsey likes that sentiment; I lobby to leave right now.
11:26 Our neighbor texts again: there’s burning by the cross. Serra Cross is the most notable landmark in Grant Park, the park right across the street from us. Straight uphill it’s maybe 100 yards away, but it’s steep so the walk to get there is three steep switchbacks, probably a 15-minute walk up. The fire doesn’t have to take the switchback route, though: I run downstairs to roll up the garage door.
The hill is orange at the top. It’s one thing to hear that there’s a fire there, but another to see it. Ashes are falling from the sky like snow. It’s almost pretty if it weren’t so terrifying. I yell inside: Lindsey we have to go NOW! She has put a few things by the door; I grab them and throw them in my car. Lindsey…NOW! She’s crying – she’s upstairs now for some reason and says she’s coming. It sounds like she’s sorry that she’s letting me down by running late, like I’m yelling at her for falling behind an arbitrary schedule. It’s not that! I’ve just looked in the eye of the danger…it’s not me, Lindsey, it’s the fire! She comes down, hysterical. While she’s coming down the stairs I grab two cases of water off a garage shelf and throw them in her car. The charging cord for my car is next to them – I throw that in her car too. I run back inside to see what she needs me to carry. There are candles burning – we lit them when the power went out. If by some miracle the flames outside don’t burn this place down, I don’t want to regret letting these tiny candle flames somehow make it an inside job. I blow out the candles, almost laughing at the irony of protecting the house from these two tiny flames while this massive fire rages a hundred yards away.
11:29 She’s grabbing her purse and putting on shoes, and I realize I need to have a plan. “Leave” isn’t enough – what if we get separated? My phone service is already intermittent tonight and the power outages can’t help the cell towers. We’re taking both cars…what do I tell her to do?
“Lindsey, drive north on the 101 and meet me at the chapel where we got married,” I tell her. I needed to pick a direction, either north or south on the freeway, and for our stretch of US-101 the “north” route really heads northwest while the “south” runs southeast. North goes away from the fire. And we just got married two months ago in Santa Barbara, 30 miles north…we have landmarks to meet at. I watch her back out of the garage, and I quickly follow. I jump out to pull down the garage door behind me (how terrible would it be for the house to survive the fire, then get robbed before we can get back?), then point the car directly at the flames before I can turn left out of the driveway to head down the hill.
11:32 It’s eerie…the smoke looks like fog and the power outage has the town otherwise completely dark. And oh right: these blocks we’re driving through normally have traffic lights, but those are out with the power. Lindsey is ahead of me: I hope she recognizes to stop at these corners.
11:34 I’m on the highway with Lindsey ahead of me. I’ve been mentally prepared to evacuate for well over an hour, but this came suddenly to her. I want to talk to her, to make sure she’s okay, that she’s comfortable driving. I try to call her through the car, but the cell service won’t call out. The sound system reverts back to the radio – I hadn’t even noticed that the radio had been on when I got in the car but the dropped call has now alerted me. It’s Sirius radio’s 90s on 9 station playing Motownphilly by Boyz II Men. This is way too peppy a soundtrack for the moment. I consider finding something more…appropriate? I realize that’s insane. I turn the radio off.
11:35 I call again. The call won’t go out.
11:36 I call again. She answers but the call drops within five seconds.
11:37 I call again. She answers, crying. She can’t talk: she’s trying to call her office to tell them that she can’t be on call the rest of the night because of the evacuation. She’s so conscientious. I admire that for a second but worry about her multitasking in all this chaos.
11:45 There’s no fire in the rearview anymore, just darkness all around. I’m thinking about what’s next: assuming, as appears to be inevitable right now, that the house burns down, what do I do? I think about the homeowners insurance, how when I bought the house Farmers Insurance required a supplemental fire plan through the state of California, but then through neighbors I found a Costco/Ameriprise plan that didn’t require that. But does that mean it’s shoddy coverage? Will I be protected? And if that covers the cost of rebuilding, what do I do in the time it takes to rebuild? Do we stay in a cheap studio apartment for a year or two while we wait? Do I move somewhere else where the cost of living is way cheaper? Can I stomach paying a monthly mortgage – on a place I can’t live for the foreseeable future – along with rent for a place I don’t like nearly as much? Do I still pay insurance if there’s no home there to insure, or property taxes if there’s not really any property?
11:47 I can still taste tonight’s dinner just a little bit. Chicken cordon bleu. Lindsey made a double batch so that I could bring leftovers to work for lunch tomorrow. This fire has ruined that for me. Dinner was so good tonight.
11:50 Halfway to Santa Barbara. It hits me that it’s 3am where my parents live. They don’t know that this is happening: they may wake up and hear the news, but right now they’re blissfully asleep while my life is burning down. I’m a fully-fledged adult but I feel like I’m five – I want this to be a bad dream, for my parents to tell me that it’s all going to be alright. But I don’t want to wake them up and worry them. In a few minutes I can sit down with Lindsey and we can figure out the next few hours.
11:55 It dawns on me that I spent a good portion of my free time the last 10 days writing thank-you notes for wedding gifts. Lindsey was going to drop them all at the post office today. But if she didn’t? And they all burn up in the fire? Will I have to write them again?! Even if the gifts were all lost in the fire, too? (Update: Lindsey did put the thank-yous in the mail *and* grabbed our box of gift cards before we left so that they wouldn’t be lost in the fire. Man she’s good.)
12:05 We’re off the highway in Santa Barbara, where there’s no power here either. The streets are pitch black, the traffic lights out. I slow at intersections looking for either darkened traffic lights or someone else’s headlights. We pull our cars over in front of the Presidio Chapel. Just nine weeks ago we stood here on a perfectly beautiful day taking wedding pictures with so many people we love. Tonight it’s just us, it’s absurdly dark, and it’s cold. Where I stop behind Lindsey I’m only halfway into a legal parking spot. I’ll deal with that later: I want to get out of the car and hug her.
12:08 We sit on a ledge between the sidewalk and the chapel, huddling to keep warm and to lean on each other. Her crying has turned to a light sob, but then she breaks down again. “I didn’t give you a chance to give you your Christmas presents” she stutters through deep breaths. She asks if I want to know what they are, or maybe more aptly what they were. I tell her no, that I want to wait to see if they’re still safe in the house so that they can still be a surprise.
12:09 She stands up and says something about “going back for vows.” I feel like an idiot: in my nightstand I keep the little book with the wedding vows she wrote to me, and while I was numbly looking on shelves and tables for sentimental items, I never thought to go get those. She runs over to her car and pulls the book out of the center console: while I was yelling at her that she had to leave the house, she had run upstairs to go get the vows. That’s what she went back for. I’m choked up.
12:15 It’s cold and we need to find a place to stay. The other thing I liked about driving north to Santa Barbara is that we know some hotels here from our wedding, and if they’re already full of evacuees maybe we can at least play the “remember us newlyweds?” card to let us leave a car there so that we can go search together. My parents had found an off-the-beaten-path (well, at least not right downtown and not obviously off the highway) motel that was a great place and a great deal, and plenty of relatives stayed there at the Lemon Tree Inn. We make plans to drive there – only a couple miles away – and get to work on lodging. In the dark we turn off a block or two too early and get turned around in the dark. It’s not our night.
12:32 We arrive at the Lemon Tree and the parking lot is fairly full. I pull into a space and jump out to help Lindsey find one, too. I grab the duffle bag that somewhere contains my wallet; Lindsey grabs a bag or two and we head in. The power is out, so a manager greets us with a flashlight and pushes open the door. They’re technically full, he says, but there may be a room or two still available online at booking.com. My phone doesn’t have service. Lindsey is down to one bar and it’s loading really slowly. I almost ask whether we can use the hotel internet to look…but of course the power is out. Without access to his computer, the night manager isn’t sure how to tell whether a room is available through the web service, so to his knowledge they’re sold out. I thank him and ask him if I can at least leave my car while we search; I’ll come back for it in the morning. He agrees and we leave to grab some of my things and transfer them to Lindsey’s car.
12:35 The manager runs out. “There’s one reservation that hasn’t shown up, so let’s give you that room,” he says. I ask if he’s sure. He replies “if they show up, I’ll deal with it then. You guys have had a rough enough night already; let’s get you a good night’s sleep.” He writes a “contract” on a blank sheet of paper and I sign under my credit card number. With the power out I joke “before I sign I should ask, do your rooms have HBO?” He walks us to our room with his flashlight. At least we have a place to stay tonight.
12:50 The flashlight app on my phone is reflecting in the mirror so that I can brush my teeth in this dark hotel room. In the reflection I see our duffle bags and backpacks in the shadows near the door. This is how we live now until further notice. I rinse the toothbrush and switch off my phone, then walk back to the bed in the dark.
1:09 Lindsey’s phone chimes. Her phone settings don’t display the full text on the screen, just the name of who sent the text. It’s our next-door neighbor, Lonna. Before she logs in to her phone we pause: this is news, but are we ready for it? Lonna says “I don’t think we have homes anymore. We’ve been sitting in our car at the fairgrounds watching our hillside burn.”
1:11 It’s real now. We probably knew that this would be the result as we drove away, but with an eyewitness account I guess that’s it. We’re both a little too tired to outright cry, but tears well up as we hold each other. Tomorrow we can start figuring out what to do next. What does insurance cover? Where do we live while we wait that out? How long will it take to rebuild? Can we even afford to rebuild? Those questions occupy the outer regions of my brain, but really all I can focus on right now is that empty feeling of finality. Wow. It’s gone.
1:18 It’s “what if?” time. I think back to when we toured – and loved – our house. What if I had put in a lowball offer and been outbid? What if hadn’t been playing around on Redfin during long indoor bike workouts, and had never discovered our house? What if I had listened to my cold feet while we were in escrow? All these little decisions…how did they lead me to here, and how could things have been different?
1:22 It’s self-pity time. I think of all the hard work that led to being able to afford that house – tutoring after work, teaching classes on weekends, long commutes, stressful workdays, responding to emails on weekends, holidays, vacations. Being diligent about saving money. Years of being hardworking, responsible, frugal…and it can all go away because someone 20 miles away flicked a cigarette butt into dry grass on a windy day?
1:25 It’s self-doubt time. I could have stayed in a smaller apartment. I didn’t need this house. And yeah I think I’m responsible and hardworking but buying a house up on a hill with a view of the ocean…that’s greed, that’s indulgence, that’s wanting to have something that other people would envy. I didn’t need that – through my own devices I put myself directly in the path of the fire. I don’t have anyone to blame but myself. I flew too close to the sun and literally got burned, so maybe I deserve this.
1:38 Lindsey’s phone chimes again. It’s Lonna again. We can’t believe it. “Your house is fine.” We text back. How do you know? She responds “we’re home.”
1:40 Seriously? All within a half hour we go from knowing our house is gone to knowing that it’s safe, and safe enough that our neighbors – we share a wall – feel comfortable staying the night there? Once again I’m numb. I want to be thrilled, relieved, grateful, overjoyed. But I just can’t believe it.
1:48 Lindsey and I both struggle with belief in God. I wish I did – life was so much easier when I could just assume that a magical man in the sky had everything under control – but as I’ve grown up I’ve become skeptical. Quick tangent that I think I’ve blogged about elsewhere on here, the seeds of those doubts started with the “Doubting Thomas” story in the Bible, where Thomas is the only apostle who doesn’t get to see the resurrected Jesus and is (rightfully, I’d say) in disbelief when the others tell him. The lesson from that passage is “just believe, just have faith” with Thomas painted as “the bad guy” for not accepting that at face value, the last line “blessed are those who have seen and believe, but even more blessed are those who have not seen and yet still believe.” And even as a 10-year old altar boy I always felt that that was the kind of thing a con artist would force on you. It was the Wizard of Oz saying “pay no attention to the man behind the curtain” or Donald Trump saying “believe me, believe me” after every asinine statement. So at the same time I’m living Thomas’s life for a moment – I keep asking Lindsey to ask Lonna more questions…I cannot believe that our house is still standing – and, yes, thanking God. Maybe it’s just a habit from my childhood but when we were fleeing I was praying, God save our house, and now that it’s been saved I’m praying, thanking God. One more tangent – I think about two men I admire a ton, Cat Stevens and my uncle. Both, in times of crisis, prayed with the bargain “God if you save me and my family, I will dedicate my life to serving you.” I may be a terrible person for saying this, but I’m glad I stopped short of that…I get to keep my house *and* watch football on Sunday mornings instead of going to a church that I can’t entirely believe in. The art of the deal…
1:55 Okay I’m thrilled now. Lindsey is crying tears of joy. We’re hugging each other tightly – we have our home, and we got through this together. It’s only been a few hours but it feels like it’s been a lifetime. We got each other to safety, we helped each other through a hard time – our relationship is strong and we can handle crisis together. That’s a win! And after all that everything is just okay…how did we get so lucky?
2:06 Lindsey and I are still beside ourselves with relief and joy. What a night it’s been, too emotional to just go to sleep. I realize again that none of my immediate family back in the Midwest has any idea that any of this has gone on. My brother wakes up before 5am Eastern – he works in a school and works out in the school gym before classes start – so he’s almost certainly up by now. And he loves a good story. I call him.
2:07 Essentially I’m just telling him everything you’ve just read. His disbelief wears off quickly – those who know us know that when we get together it’s only a matter of time before the jokes and hip-hop references are flying – and we shift to celebration mode. I quote Jay-Z “If you escaped what I escaped, you’d be in Paris getting effed up too!” Sean has already made plans to come visit in February, so I close the call by triumphantly saying “the trip to Ventura is still on. You can stay at MY HOUSE!”
2:20 Remember Leon Lett? In a Super Bowl in the 1990s, Lett was a defensive lineman for the Dallas Cowboys, who were blowing out the Buffalo Bills. Late in the game he scooped up a fumble (or maybe it was an interception) and ran over 50 yards untouched toward the end zone – a 300+ pound defensive lineman in full sprint to score an improbable Super Bowl touchdown that would put the exclamation point on a championship. But famously he started celebrating inside the 10 yard line, holding the ball down low while strutting toward the end zone, and a speedy Bills receiver chased him down and knocked the ball out of his hand before he could score. My brother and I love that play…over 20 years later Leon Lett is a common punchline when we get together. And I bring this up because:
2:21 Lonna texts again. “We’re being evacuated again for another fire by city hall.” City hall is about a quarter mile away. Did I just Leon Lett my own house?
2:25 Lindsey and I are exhausted. The winds are supposed to last all week and the fire is spreading. This won’t just be a long night, but probably a long week. I drift off to sleep, mad at myself for celebrating too soon but optimistic, too, because I know that we survived one close call so I know it’s possible we survive another. An hour ago I was sure my house was gone. Now there’s a 50%? 75%? chance it’s still there…I can sleep way easier now than before.
Tuesday, December 5: The Aftermath
7:00am Lindsey’s phone chimes. After a night of tossing and turning she’s finally asleep, but I’m up and desperate for news. It’s Lonna – all’s safe in the morning although there are still fires burning around town. They’re back at home, with no fires in the immediate area.
8:00 I check the Nextdoor neighborhood social media app. There’s a message about a fire at “the apartment building on Cedar.” If it’s the building I’m thinking about, it’s right at the first intersection we come to every time we leave the house. I keep refreshing for updates: an hour later I’ll hear that someone has driven by and everything looks okay.
8:45 I’m watching the local news, which is wall to wall coverage of the fire. The weather girl is talking about the strength and direction of the winds, noting that the dry, windy conditions will last at least through Friday, a full four more days. I look at the map on the screen: we’re at the mercy of the winds for the rest of the week. It’s a strange feeling rooting for the winds to blow in a different direction. With all reports accepting that 1) the fire won’t be contained anytime soon and 2) it’s going to be windy all week, the only thing to really hope for is that the winds push the flames toward somewhere else. But every “somewhere else” puts someone else’s house in the path of the fire. Why should they have to suffer just so that I don’t have to? I realize that my rooting doesn’t really impact the winds at all, but all the same I feel conflicted. I can’t help but want the winds to shift, but I can’t shake the guilt that my hopes are probably working against someone else.
11:00 After grabbing some breakfast, Lindsey and I are on our way to check out our house. Technically we’re still under mandatory evacuation orders – really the whole city is – but we’ve heard that people are at least going to check on their homes. It’s a quiet morning as we drive along the coast: you wouldn’t know that such a terrifying fire – one that will soon affect every inch of the coastline we’re driving – is burning out of control just a few miles away. As we exit the highway we look at the hill we live on: it’s charred black, virtually the whole thing having been scorched over the past 12 hours.
11:05 We drive around some barriers to get on our street. I’m holding my breath: I know that the house is still there – we could see it from down below – but I’m still not sure what I’ll see. As we pull up our row of townhouses looks exactly like it has for the time we’ve lived here…but the hill behind us is a mess. I count three different plumes of smoke coming off the hill within 50 yards of our street, and all but the first maybe 30 feet of the hill is either charred black or covered in ash.
11:10 We walk into the house. It smells like a Marlboro factory and there’s ash all over the floor in the main room. But otherwise everything is perfectly fine. I’m glad I blew out those candles! Although maybe not: would the house smell more like Bath and Body Works and less like smoke had I kept them going? We do a bit of a trade: some of the essential items we brought – blankets, tissues, toilet paper – can go back in the house now that we have a hotel room secured. But I run to my nightstand to grab my little Ziplock bag of greeting cards: mostly from Lindsey, but a few from my parents and my grandmother – it’s weird but just in case something ever happens I want to be able to read their handwriting…for the same reason I keep a saved voicemail from each of my immediate family members so that I could always hear their voice again, too – and a series of notes I’ve exchanged with my sister (whenever we’re in the same building the night before a big life event for one of us – moving a way to college, a first marathon, a wedding – we slip a note under the door of the one who has the big event. Meghan started that the night before I moved to college). I have some gift cards and a little spare cash there, too – it could be days before the threat of random fire is gone, so with some daylight and perspective I grab the sentimental and the irreplaceable.
11:25 We’re talking to some neighbors who stayed with friends in town and are up on all the local news. Firefighters put out our hill’s main fire sometime around 1:30am. The little fire hydrant just in front of our house saved the day: the small unburned area of trees and grass is the area they drenched with the hose. But that wasn’t all: embers flared up just up the street early this morning and a neighbor put it out with his own hose. And a block over on the other street that leads up our side of the hill a few homes weren’t as lucky.
11:30 We fill up a couple buckets and head up the hill with a neighbor to dump water on the smoke plumes. It’s smoldering ashes – nothing immediately burning – and soon we realize that all we’re doing is moving the ashes around and not really extinguishing anything. But I still feel the need to do *something*. I keep the bucket and start dousing the trees around the property. I know that a few gallons per tree isn’t likely going to have any impact at all against this massive fire. But I can’t help but try. As I walk down the parking lot to hit another large tree I see a neighbor down the way who has connected two hoses together to reach the hillside: he’s doing the same thing, hosing down anything he thinks could be kindling.
12:00pm Having grabbed more sentimental and valuable items, we’re ready to go back into evacuation. For one, that’s what the fire and police have asked and with the way they saved our house the night before I’m not going to argue. But also I think more than an hour in that house could be immediate lung cancer at this point, plus I wouldn’t sleep a wink knowing that there’s a fire within a few miles and 70mph gusts expected all night. First we drive to the top of the hill to see the charred Serra Cross and surrounding area. And we see…
12:01 It’s post-apocalyptic here. Little fires burn every 20 yards or so, burning up whatever fuel is left around them. In between are smoldering piles of ash, completely blackened trees, a mangled and partially-melted Stop sign, downed and crooked power line poles. Those waist-high wooden posts that mark the sides of roads or parking spaces? Nearly every one is acting like a candle right now – they’re all different heights based on how far down they’ve burned, and in the top of nearly each one is a small fire continuing to burn. We have some bottles of water in the car: we start pouring out small fires. I’m wearing hiking boots from my bucket trips to the hill: I stamp out a few more. The heat is immediate even through inch-thick soles.
12:10 Before we leave town we’ll stop at Lowe’s and Target, Lowe’s to find smoke masks and Target to gear up with supplies for phase two of the evacuation. We drive along Poli Street, the street immediately below us on the hill that runs as a foothill road along the backbone of Ventura. Every uphill street is blocked off. For many, when you look up you see carnage. At one intersection a police officer is directing traffic. As we slow we get a good look up the hill. Within less than a mile from our house we see the ruins of several homes. We start to cry.
1:15 Driving back from the shopping center we take Main Street, all the way down the hill. Looking up we see fires still burning on many of those uphill streets we had passed before. Smoke billows over the mountains. I refresh one of the emergency websites on my phone: the high wind, high fire advisory has been extended. This morning it was through Friday night, meaning 3 and a half more worrisome days. Make that 4 and a half now. As we drive we get back below our hill: we look up, happy we get to see our house again, but nervous for the second time in 24 hours that we might be looking at it for the last time.
Epilogue
As I finish this story it’s Sunday, December 17, almost two full weeks since the fire began. The Thomas Fire is now the third-largest fire in California history, and is still only 40% contained. Most estimates suggest that it won’t be fully out until mid-January, and that when it’s all said and done it will be the largest fire California has ever seen.
We were evacuated for a full week, having fled on a Monday night and returned on a Monday night. Since we’ve been back, we’ve bought four air purifiers and a handful of indoor plants to try to clean the smoke smell out of the air (it’s working!), and today has been the first smoke-free day that we’ve been able to open the windows to expedite that process even further.
Had you told me that first Monday night as I was driving away that this whole thing would cost me a few hundred bucks in hotel rooms and another few hundred in air purifiers, but that I’d get to go back home in a week…shoot, I’d have taken that deal if it were 10x times the money and it took a month to get home! We know we’re fortunate. I mentioned those sunrises I love to watch from our bedroom: the last week they’ve had a smoke filter to them, almost like you’re looking through a thin layer of charcoal and the light pink/orange is now a Halloween-ish burnt orange with gray tint. I cherish those sunrises all the more.
If there’s a silver lining here it’s the community. One thing I always loved about living in the cold Midwest during the winter is that snowstorms brought out the best in a lot of people: when the weather was that bad you’d go out of your way to shovel someone’s driveway or hold the door. Here we have that right now: everyone says hello, we’re holding doors and counting blessings and asking how people are doing. Today as I was walking into town a woman pulled up in a truck beside me and offered me a smoke mask. I felt bad – I have a box at home and actually today was the first clear day in a while so I was reveling in the clean, breathable air – but I could tell that her mission for the day was to give people smoke masks so I took it and put it on immediately. I stopped at a store for some Christmas shopping and commiserated with the salespeople how busy they are now since they lost a prime week of shopping while everyone was out for the fire. I spent a little too much on #venturastrong t-shirts (proceeds go to relief charities) and some Ventura-themed gifts for Lindsey. And I laughed with the saleswoman about making sure that I had a plan for how I’d evacuate with a particular gift the next time the fires came. We hugged goodbye and on my way outside I saw some off-duty firefighters crossing the street. “Thank you!” I yelled at them. They waved and smiled, then I turned at the intersection of California and Main and walked up the hill. City Hall glistened yet again, shining bright in the sun presiding over its wounded but resilient city. I soaked in the scene just like I did two weeks ago, looking out at Main Street and watching the sunlight dance on the ocean, the palm trees swaying in the winds – yep, those Santa Ana winds are *still* blowing – and the hustle and bustle of Ventura residents preparing for the holidays. Then I walked home, a sentence that I hope I never take for granted again.
Ventura could use your help! Lindsey and I have been extremely fortunate in the two weeks since the fires erupted but many of our neighbors have not. If you’re interested, they could use your help. The following charities are set up to help victims of the Thomas Fire here in Ventura:
https://www.redcross.org/donate/cm/californiavolunteers-pub
http://vcunitedway.org/
https://vccf.org/