2023

I was awoken by a rainstorm that blew through around 2:30 in the morning. There has been more rain than I've seen in as long as I can remember. It has been relentless. The wind blew and rain pounded against the roof and windows. The house didn't shudder and I was proud of it. In a week, there has been blue sky maybe twice. 90% of the state is under flood warning. I'm grateful none of my family has had any flooding or damage to their home from fallen trees.

Maybe it has been the weather, or maybe it has been from watching Taylor Sheridan's 1883 and 1923, but I reflected on what it means to live in California, to live surrounded by the West's history of violent ruggedness, nature's fury of fire and rain, and the sacrifices we make to raise our families here. I admire the Sierras and foothills, the redwood forests, the beaches of the coast, and the impossible desert. And then I see the wildness of the people here, the crime, the poverty, the desperation of addiction. Is this what the people of 150 years ago imagined the West would become? Everything is different but nothing has changed.

Jill and I occasionally consider retiring somewhere other than California. But part of me would feel guilty leaving and abandoning the sacrifices our families made to settle here. My dad's family was from Arizona, the real Wild West. He grew up in dust storms and monsoons. My mom's family landed in the California desert near Edwards Air Force Base with Grandpa as a test pilot. Mom and Dad married in Flagstaff and moved to San Francisco, built their home in Vallejo, and raised me and my brother.

Jill's family, on the other hand, was five generations in San Francisco, with stories from the earthquakes, prohibition and the Ghirardelli family. Jill only recently learned of her Native American heritage.

I remember watching the '89 World Series when the TV went to static and the house shook and that car drove from the top deck of the Bay Bridge to the bottom. I remember the smoke and warm glow on the horizon from the Oakland firestorm in 1991. And more recently, as an adult, I watched the Tubbs Fire destroy Santa Rosa and I was grateful my home in Concord was safe.

And I sail Dash, our sailboat, on the waters where my grandfather's battleship was anchored, where my father's submarines were designed and built, where my brother has built his career aboard vessels and where Jack London fought poachers and wrote his novels.

Is it fair to take pride in surviving California? Is it fair to realize people from all over the world have risked everything to be here and see the sets of waves of the Pacific Ocean curl and crash onto the cliffs of this coast? My coast?

As I speak of this, I am not daring fate to bring these disasters to me and my family any closer than she already has. I am not boasting of the good fortune I was given by being born here, minimizing the challenges immigrants overcame just for the dream of seeing this landscape. But... maybe it's fair I stay here in spite of the risks, because of the risks, and allow the spirit of adventure, freedom, and peace to remain in my family as future generations call California their home.