Despite this terrifying news and all the thick smoke and debris in my yard, I figured the fire was still a good 15 or so miles to the north of us. I was concerned, especially for folks I know who live up there, but was calm. I told my wife, “Let’s pack up our cars. You know, just in case. Better safe than sorry.”
As we packed, the news got worse: the fire was now racing southward down the Interstate 15 corridor; it was now heading right toward us. Within minutes, we went from being mildly concerned to very frightened, and started throwing stuff in my car and my wife’s car as quickly as we could. Our daughter Mandy helped as we grabbed family pictures, insurance documents, computers, my guitar, a few clothes, and, of course, our cat Boo Boo, who was completely freaked at this point.
Then, an orange and black cloud suddenly darkened the sky directly behind us to the north, and we felt an intense increase in heat. The so-called Cedar Fire, which has since been declared the largest and most destructive inferno in southern California history, was now virtually in our backyard. At that same moment, a police car sped down our block blaring, “This is the San Diego Police Department! Leave now! Evacuate your homes immediately!”
As I hurriedly carried Mandy, who turns four next month, to the car, Carl and Sally Stark, our neighbors and dear friends from directly across the street, walked out of their garage as they were packing up, waved reassuringly to us, and smiled. I smiled back and shouted, “We’ll be OK. Let’s just all stick together through this.”
My neighbor’s reassuring wave and our plan to stay together helped us immeasurably to make it through the next 48 hours. My wife Gabriela and I wiped a tear from each other’s eyes and got in our cars. She followed me closely as we drove away from our house, both of us thinking we’d probably never see it or its contents again.
We were headed south for the huge parking lot at Qualcomm Stadium, home of the Chargers and Padres and the temporary evacuation site for all residents of Tierrasanta. It was a place I had spent a good portion of the last 20 years watching baseball and football, the place I planned to be the following night to root for my hapless Chargers on Monday Night Football. I never dreamed I’d be there seeking refuge.
But as we drove out to the main streets of our neighborhood toward the freeway, we found ourselves in a massive traffic jam on Clairemont Mesa Boulevard, within eyeshot of the Tierrasanta welcome sign and a few blocks from our house. Everyone in the neighborhood was trying to get out of the way of the fire and onto I-15 South.
The scariest moments–among the scariest of my life, in fact–came as we sat in that seemingly endless line of cars waiting to get on the freeway. The raging flames in the canyon just north of the street were quickly approaching; they were within about 50 feet of our cars.
Feeling like a sitting duck, I was tempted to drive over the median and head in the other direction and tell my wife to follow me. But that only would have put us back into Tierrasanta, so we stayed in our cars and got on the freeway–just before the fire jumped the street. Luckily Mandy, who was in the car with me, turned out to be a trooper. “Daddy, look at the fire,” she kept saying–a little scared, but just a bit too young to understand the danger.
When we finally made it to the stadium, we sat in and around our cars–dazed, confused, looking constantly at the north sky and listening to our car radios hoping for any news about our homes. At Gate C, we met up with Carl and Sally, and more neighbors: Fred and Anna Purdy, who also live across the street from us, and Steve Jacobs, who lives a couple of houses down from us.
I told them that I had reserved a hotel room several miles west of the stadium, just in case, and that the hotel had a few more rooms if they wanted them. They agreed it was a good idea for us to all stick together through this and called and reserved the rooms. From the stadium, we drove in convoy to the hotel, where the management kindly cut their rates for us by more than half. We quickly went up to the room and continued to monitor TV and radio all day and the rest of the night, making calls to anyone and everyone we thought could give us any news.
We sat and watched as the video rolled. One house after another house after another, burning to the ground. We kept watching to see if any of these homes were ours. Rarely did a reporter give a specific address. It was maddening, and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one in the group who still had visions of that demonic cloud and the flames that engulfed the canyons of our neighborhood. Clearly, none of us was confident that we had a home to which to return. But everyone maintained a brave face.
Then, late Sunday evening, the first bit of news about our neighborhood: approximately 10 homes in Tierrasanta had been destroyed. No specifics, no street names or addresses. We still didn’t know. Gabby and I fell into each other’s arms again, and my daughter asked me, “Daddy, did our house burn down?” I forced a smile and said, “I hope not, sweet pea.”
Early the next morning, after my wife and daughter finally fell asleep, more bad news. “A total of 23 homes had been destroyed in the San Diego neighborhood of Tierrasanta,” the reporter said. This later proved to be inaccurate, but at the time I just sat there in the dark, shaking my head thinking about how much work and love we had put into that home.
It was unthinkable that our house and everything in it could be gone. It’s not the material stuff, though that is a concern, of course. It’s the personal stuff, the lifetime of memories, and we only managed to get a handful out. Then I took a long look at my wife, my daughter and our stressed-out cat all sleeping on that bed, and breathed a little sigh of relief. Everything that really, truly mattered to me was right here.
I still couldn’t sleep, and spent the entire night trying to get any information about our home and our neighbors’ homes. Waking up the next morning after a brief rest, I wondered what I was doing there when my house could be burning down. It’s just not my instinct to sit and wait. My wife urged me not to go back, both for safety reasons and also because the air was so thick it was unhealthy to breathe.
But after getting the approval of my NEWSWEEK editors, I decided to try to get back into the neighborhood, which was still closed off to residents, with my press credentials. There was an eerie, post-apocalyptic feeling throughout the city, an unsettling quiet and calm as I made my way eastward. The streets were practically empty, the air was almost unbreathable, ash was falling everywhere like snow, and the sun was just a faint orange-red ball in the darkened mid-day sky.
Then, a surprising announcement on the radio: authorities were allowing residents back into Tierrasanta. Instead of continuing home, I did a U-turn and went back for my family and friends. I wanted us all to go back together, to see this together, for better or worse. I needed them with me.
My wife and our neighbors had heard the same news and were ready to go when I got there. So, nervously, we convoyed back, still having no idea whether our houses would be standing when we returned. As we got closer, the anxiety grew. It didn’t look good. The canyons around us were toast. I’m not sure how our house could possibly have survived this, I thought.
But as we got closer to our street, we noticed that, remarkably, no houses had been burned. There were homes several blocks away that had been completely destroyed, but somehow, our little corner of Tierrasanta had remained intact. When we finally reached our house and turned into the driveway, my wife and I jumped out of our cars and hugged, again, and started talking to the house as if it could hear and understand us.
I know, I know… but it didn’t seem weird at that moment. Talk about a sight for sore eyes. We were exhausted, but giddy. My wife goofily tapped her tennis shoes together and said, “There’s no place like home.” I rolled my eyes, but smiled.
Our exhilaration didn’t last long. As we started unpacking and cleaning the ash and debris that was everywhere around us, we started thinking about all the other San Diegans and Southern Californians who had gone through this same gauntlet of emotions, but were not returning to a house–just a pile of ash and coals. We were happy to be home, but we didn’t celebrate.
Later that night, we got together again with our neighbors and, again, shared a few tears and laughs. All of us and our respective homes had somehow survived this monster’s rampage, our worst nightmares had not been realized. But so many of our friends and neighbors weren’t so fortunate, and that thought still weighs heavily.
As I write this, the fires still burn throughout San Diego and southern California and are currently threatening Julian, the charming and historic mountain town east of San Diego where our family goes at least twice a year for a relaxing weekend getaway. But whatever happens to Julian, or to any other cities or structures, we’ll endure as long as we stick together the way my family and my neighbors have these last few days.
There’s nothing saintly or profound about compassion, it’s simply one among hundreds of human emotions. But it is arguably the most essential tool for our common survival. And since I moved to San Diego 20 years ago, this city, now the sixth-largest in the nation, has repeatedly demonstrated a remarkable community spirit. While I’ve always loved and appreciated this place, I now feel prouder of and safer in this community than ever.
