The Black Gate Opens

(Author's note: Many of you know that I live in Encinitas, a small surf town in north coastal San Diego county. If you've seen the news, you're no doubt aware that the county is in the middle of what will likely become the most devastating firestorm in the country's history. The story continues to unfold; as of 11:30 this morning my family and I are all OK.)

The fires started yesterday, and spread almost instantaneously, the shrieking Santa Ana winds driving the flames, the flames cutting black swathes through the heart of the county. Last night's winds were like nothing I'd experienced since moving here some 20 years ago. Lying in bed, listening to them batter the house and bow the massive palms in our front yard, my mind traveled back to my childhood summers, when similar Midwest blows were often the harbingers of tornadoes. Somewhere around 1:30 a.m., I knew that this firestorm would be infinitely worse than the one we lived through four years ago to the day. I could taste the smoke, even though we'd shut all of the windows.

I was out of bed at six, and the enormity of it was apparent: Poway, Rancho Bernardo, Ramona, all were evacuating, some 200,000 people fleeing the encroaching flames, according to the news. I stepped outside. Overhead and to the north, blue sky tinged with orange, a dawn like any other. To the south, a picture of Hell, so close that it seemed I could walk a few hundred yards and I'd be shaking hands with the Ferryman. The sky was onyx, the sun - what one could see of it - was blood red, the smell...I imagine a blacksmith's forge has a similar odor. Or a crematorium.  The rational part of my mind quickly stepped in: we are safe, from the fires at least, in our house across from the ocean.  The flames are miles away. They can't reach here. But the irrational crept in, a whisper of fear...if the flames jump the freeway, we're backed up against the sea. We have no place to go.

Watching the images of burning homes and despairing firefighters, I scarely noticed him settle down on the couch next to me.

"Daddy?', he asked. "Is that a fire?" I put my arm around him. "Yeah, it is, but it's far away," I reassured him. "It's far away and it won't come here." We watched the news in silence for a couple of minutes. On the screen, an image of a herd of hapless cows, silhouetted against the conflagration.

"Daddy? The fire is scary. Can we watch something else?" "Sure. How about Handy Manny?" I gave him a squeeze, and in that moment fervently hoped that a hug and his favorite cartoon would be enough to keep his fears at bay, while outside the blackened sky continued to roil and shed ash like tears.