The Power of Nature : A Community Forged by the Approaching Wall of Flame : CAMPUS CORRESPONDENCE

Only now do I rest.

At 9:30 Tuesday evening, evacuation teams order me and other resident students to the gym, the Firestone Fieldhouse, at the south west end of Pepperdine’s Malibu campus. I grab my portable stereo, word processor, writing portfolio and a blanket. On the way, I get nauseous.

Behind me, flames crest the ridge above the university. Smoke penetrates every inch of my line of sight. Before me, the gym teems with scrambling students and huddling families. Beside me, nine firetrucks pass, strangely quiet and slow-moving. I groan--that is all I can do.

The gym’s large structure barely contains the flurry of activity. The emotions are a strange mix of restlessness and relaxation, anxiety and composure, frustration and revelry.

Already, groups form to sing, pray, cry, laugh, play games or just talk. Students clutch teddy bears for consolation, play Pictionary for distraction, eat junk food to calm fear’s hunger or escape with Walkmans. A bedraggled father wearily pushes his child to sleep in a squeaky stroller. The more restless play basketball or volleyball, and the gym momentarily reclaims its intended reason for being. Swish, smack, bam!--balls fly through the air, and our hearts and hopes rise and fall with them.

There are plenty of questions: “What did you leave behind?” “What about tests coming up?” “Any news about Malibu?” “Does the school’s insurance protect belongings?” “How long are we going to be stuck here?”

At 10:30, lines to the phones are long and respectfully quiet. Students fidget with their jacket zippers and shoe strings, anxiously look at their watches, shift their weight from foot to foot and wish they could just as easily shift the heavy burden of dealing with distraught family and friends. We wait, wait to hear familiar voices, to give comfort we don’t feel, to fall back on the old crisis standbys--”I’m all right, Mom.” “I’ll keep you posted.” “Everything will be fine.” “I love you, too.”

My father’s voice cracks, and, suddenly shaken, I hasten my goodby.

Faculty families bring a breath of fresh air with them. Their children, excited by the novelty and the postponed bedtime, play together. They start their elementary-school version of basketball, completely unaffected by the apocalyptic disaster beyond the gym’s walls.

For the first time, many of us see our professors as husbands and wives, fathers and mothers, and a new appreciation and respect surface. Under the stress, the hierarchal wall between professor and student crumbles. A sympathetic hand on the back leaves an enduring bond. Long hugs birth friendships.

An overwhelming sense of community develops under the high gymnasium ceiling. Professors and staff hand out masks to protect our lungs from smoke. We help watch their children while their important phone calls are made. I begin to feel glad to be with my peers.

We begin to joke and laugh about our situation. A friend light-heartedly sings the chorus to “Burning Down the House.” I come back with “C’mon Baby, Light My Fire.”

An eavesdropping staff member leans over and casually invites us all to a simultaneous showing of “Fire Walk With Me,” “Backdraft” and “Firestarter.” We explode with laughter and begin exchanging funny disaster stories. We joke not out of apathy, but because we have to, because humor is a resource of great strength, and because we have a long night ahead of us.

At 2 a.m., a friend frantically rushes up and asks, “Have you been outside lately? It looks like the fire has reached our apartment complex.” I don’t even answer. I’m already running. She is, too.

The vantage point is about 200 yards away, and in the short time it takes us to get there, I say a quick prayer. When I arrive and look up, my heart drops. Sure enough, flames are snaking down the hill toward our complex and appear to be licking at the borders of the structure. A staff member tries to comfort me by explaining that the fire looks worse than it really is because of the high red and black contrast. But I’m already shaking my head. My friend and I link together and stand there watching, dumbfounded. This is the moment. All jokes and prayers evaporate.

My cold skin raises goose bumps; my nose burns from breathing the acrid smoke; my eyes sting. All I hear is the fickle wind laughing at me. Even my heart says nothing. I am momentarily empty. Then, I start thinking about how chapped my lips are. I rub them with a finger, and they tingle. I ask around if anyone has any Chap Stick, but none do.

Next thing, I’m heading inside to find something to relieve my stinging lips. The fire threatening my home instantly loses its fearful grip. I need Vaseline!

I get my Vaseline and go back outside to watch. But this time it’s different. I’m different. Somehow, I have detached myself from the apartment and everything in it. At that moment, a staff member approaches me and reports that the complex is safe and the fire contained.

At 5 a.m., I am one of the few still awake. A pale smoke has filled the gym and hangs over the sleeping bodies like a shroud. A quiet peace permeates the atmosphere, and I know it won’t be long before the crisis is over. Strains of Chopin’s “Nocturnes” play from a stereo nearby.

The last thing I remember before falling asleep is somebody whispering that the winds have shifted away from the school.