Robert Kerbeck - Malibu Burning

F ew things in this world will forever change you like the terror of thinking youre about to be burned alive in front of your kid. But at 11:44 on the morning of Friday, November 9, as the flames of the Woolsey Fire barreled across our yard, I was gutted by the possibility. The fire had been burning since the day before, but all at once it crashed down into my Malibu Park neighborhood, and somehow there were more children fighting the blaze than there were firefighters. My sixteen-year-old, Davis, was one of them. Garden hoses in hand, legs braced against the searing winds, he and I were pushing the very edge of judgment and safety in our desperation to protect our home. As fireballs pelted the yard around us, it hit me that Id made a horrific mistake.

Teaching risk assessment was one of the most important jobs of a parent, and I was imparting this lesson to my son in the worst possible way.

My wife, Gardia, jumped into her car and ripped out of the driveway. Shed known from the beginning. Shed sensed the danger in a way I hadnt. That morning, she was up at six oclock tracking the fires on the other side of the Santa Monica Mountains as well as the extreme Santa Ana winds in the forecast. Known as devil winds, Santa Anas blow in hot and dry from the desert and pick up speed in the canyons and arroyos of Southern California until they hit Malibu with hurricane force. At best, these winds are an annoyance, creating itchy skin and short tempers. In fire season, however, they are life-threatening.

By the time Gardia received confirmation that the fire had hopped the 101 Freeway, the last major firebreak before it would plow into western Malibu where we live, shed woken up Davis and put him to work packing family photos and videos.

I was still asleep when the mandatory evacuation order came by phone call, text, and email at 7:30 a.m. Id popped up, thrown on a pair of jeans, and hustled to the toolshed that served as my home office to get the only possession that mattered to me: my laptop.

By the time I came back out into the sun, the smoke was already throwing a low scrim across the sky. I could smell it, feel it on my skin.

I grabbed Davis and a couple of garden hoses, and we started watering down the foliage in front of our all-wood Victorian home. Davis had spent his whole life there. Wed bought it in 2000 during a rare lull in the housing market. The height notches on the kitchen wall. The swing set and sliding board in the backyard. My late fathers piano in the living room. We damn sure were going to give the place a fighting chance.

Within half an hour, the sky had gone from grayish to black, though over the ocean to the south I could still see a stretch of blue. The severity of these signs convinced me that more serious measures were required. So I jogged into the garage and dragged out the fire pump.

A surfer buddy, Tim, once told me what gear to buy for the inevitable wildfire. A lifelong local, Tim had also warned me that there would be no firefighters when the time came, that if I wanted to save my place I would need to stay and fight for it myself. Being from Philadelphia, I couldnt imagine firefighters not showing up. I wasnt sure I believed him, but it couldnt hurt to be prepared. He explained that the hydrant water would run out, so it was essential that I have a pump and my own water source. I glanced toward our hot tub and hoped it would be enough.

I wheeled the pump down toward it and attached the fire hose while Davis drenched the house. I risked a look around. Many of our neighbors had highly flammable eucalyptus and pine trees on their properties. Some had entire groves, with individual trunks extending more than a hundred feet high. Everywhere around me, the brush was dry and brittle. California had been in drought conditions regularly since 2012, and suddenly everything looked like kindling.

I yanked the cord and the pumps engine sputtered on. When Davis was little, testing the pump was the highlight of summer. Blasting water hundreds of feet in the air from a fire hose was, to us, the definition of a good time. As much fun as it was, I could never get out of my mind that one day we might have to use the pump for its true purpose. And that my only child might be operating that hose.

I increased the idle and braced for the water pressure. But there was none. The engine ran, but the pump wasnt pulling water out of the spa. I shut it off and started it again. Still nothing.

My wife is the repair person in the family, so I ran to the house to get her. But she couldnt figure out the problem either. Frustrated, we stood in the yard and looked skyward. The dark, smudgy air seemed to have lightened, as if the sun had come out after a rainstorm. On the ridge above us, an orange glow pulsed.

Get the Phos-Chek, Gardia said, pointing to the garage. Take the hose up to the hydrant.

Over the years Id acquired other gear: Masks, nozzles, a specialized wrench to access the hydrant at the top of our driveway, and a flame-retardant chemical called Phos-Chek. But Id never used any of it. And as I grabbed the wrench and chugged to the hydrant I realized I didnt know what to do with it.