Three Weeks On: The Aftermath of the LA Wildfires
An ode to a city that won’t stay down.
Editor’s note: The following is a reader submission from self-proclaimed “LA transplant”, who has come to love his new home in the 310. PS, Anders also wrote the incredibly detailed if frightening piece last year about how NOT to hide your keys while surfing. We have a fascinating update coming on that soon…
In the immediate aftermath of the fires, there was nothing to write: the pictures and videos said it all.
For me, it was a video of two guys about my age driving through the firestorm up PCH. As they drive past Topanga, one of them narrates to his partner on speakerphone: “The Reel Inn is on fire, and it’s gone,” he says, panning out the window to show the blaze.
His partner sounds confused; “The Reel Inn is on fire?” she says, as if she’s misheard him.
“No, it’s not on fire,” he clarifies. “It’s gone.”
A friend sent me this video on the evening of January 7th, right around the time the texts from home started rolling in: “Are you guys okay?” “Thinking of you guys out there.” “Hope you’re hanging in there.” Etc., etc. My response was more or less a copy-pasted, “We’re fine in Venice, but it’s unbelievably sad.” And it was — objectively. But as I shook ash off my drying wetsuits and watched footage of cars getting plowed off Sunset Boulevard, the feeling wasn’t so much sadness as it was disbelief.
Three weeks on, the situation remains incomprehensibly sad and maddeningly devoid of clear answers. Can we safely go outside and exercise? Is the water in Venice truly unsafe? What happens when it rains? Are we living through a Chernobyl scenario? When will I be able to drive PCH? Aren’t there any experts who can give concrete answers to my ten thousand questions?
These have been running on a loop in my head for thirteen days straight.
For the most part, they’ve been selfish questions, driven by my selfish desire to reclaim the easy, mostly untroubled life I had on January 6, 2025. While families — and people I know and love — sift through the rubble of their upended lives (or, in some cases, wait to find out when they’ll even get the chance), I secretly wonder if I’ll be able to drive up PCH in time for the first south swell of the season.
But this afternoon, after a quick strike up the coast to Ventura — where I’m told the water and air are safe, though who actually knows — my friend sent me an essay by Sam Sanders on what it means to be an Angeleno. And just like that, my selfish, unanswerable questions shifted into something closer to real grief than petty frustration.
Like many in this city, I wasn’t born here and have only lived here for a handful of years, but his words struck something deep. I’m going to try to unpack why they hit me the way they did.
During my first few months in LA, I’d often bemoan the fact that surfing was too transactional out here: “Because you can go so regularly,” I’d theorize, “it just loses its magic.” Back home, the ritual of laying my booties in front of the heat vents en route to the beach felt like hanging a stocking on Christmas Eve. What treasures will we find under the tree? I’d ask myself as I drove toward the beach.
I told myself that in LA, with its endless cams and pull-off spots by the highway, the magic was gone. You always knew what was under the tree — usually a thick crowd and mediocre waves.
But as the months passed, the magic of LA surfing started to show itself in small, quiet moments: a sunset from the showers at Topanga (which are probably gone now), the breath of a dolphin at Second Point, the smell of sage on a spring evening at Leo Carillo.
LA’s population sits around 3.9 million, but if you count the whole metropolitan area, you’re looking at close to 18 million. Yet, there are still nights along PCH when you find yourself in the water with just a couple other people, and for a moment, looking out at the mountains and the moon, you feel something real.
And of course, there’s the people. In between those quiet moments, I’d see the same faces from Venice to Topanga, all the way up toward County Line. There was that family — the Days, I’ve since learned — with the mom and dad who rip, and the two boys who are always skating around the First Point lot, launching airs on the inside, and skimboarding the Malibu shore break when the crowd gets too ridiculous.
I don’t know them, but I’ve always admired them from afar and thought, if I ever have kids, that’s how I want to do it. There’s Katsu (or Tatsu — I’m sorry if I’ve misspelled it), with his signature bottom turn, bucket hat, and red rails, always taking the time to smile and chat when he’s paddling out after a good one. And “Tim” — still just “Tim” to me — with his long, curly hair, always paddling out just as the sun’s setting while everyone else is scrambling for their last wave.
The list goes on, but the point’s simple: LA’s surf community is rich, vibrant, and vital. And when you zoom out, like we’ve all been forced to these past two weeks, you realize that as a surfer in LA — or anywhere, really — you’re sharing some of the best moments of your life with strangers. Strangers you may never speak to, but who, in some way, you know.
So when we get back out there, I hope we can look each other in the eye, nod, and remember that life is bigger than whatever thigh-high wave carries us to shore. That we’re lucky to drive home on Highway 1, looking out at the distant lights of the city we love.
To the firefighters, first responders, and everyone holding LA together — thank you.
Comments
Comments are a Stab Premium feature. Gotta join to talk shop.
Already a member? Sign In
Want to join? Sign Up