Beauty--With Fancy Sandbags

Call me crazy.

Having survived my fourth major fire in 16 years, you’d think I’d have half a brain and move to a nice rainy climate--like Seattle. But when someone asks me why I live in Malibu, the answer is simple: Because I love it.

It has been my good fortune to have traveled much of the world. I’ve seen many beautiful places, experienced different cultures and lifestyles, only to return home with the same conclusion: Malibu is the best place to live.

And for three basic reasons: beauty, practicality and sense of community.

As I sit here, I am watching an extraordinary sunrise--a little smoke in the air intensifies the color. Point Dume lights up across the waters of Paradise Cove, reminding me of the south of France. The beauty is awe-inspiring. Mountains fall precariously into a magnificent ocean, ever-changing, yet constant. The sound of the surf is always there, reassuring. I see, from the corner of my eye, a school of dolphins feeding in the kelp (nice backyard), while pelicans dive for fish.

In the spring, hiking in the hills, you smell the sweetness of wild sage, and are blinded by the intense yellow of wild mustard. Sometimes, I feel as if I’ve wondered onto a set from “The Sound of Music.”

Having been raised back East, with the Beach Boys providing my only preconceptions of California, I wasn’t disappointed when, at age 23, I first laid eyes on Malibu. My only thought was, “What a great place to retire!” I never dreamed it could be a place where you can have a career. But considering it’s within spitting distance of a great metropolitan area, it wasn’t long before I moved in. That was 16 years ago--and I’m not planning on leaving any time soon.

The license plate frames may be corny (I have them) but Malibu is “a way of life.” It is a rural, one-street town--not Main Street but Pacific Coast Highway. Contrary to popular belief, Malibu is not wealthy, but essentially middle class. Sure, there’s affluence along the beach, but most of our 18,000 Malibuites live in the hills and canyons in “heartland of America” communities. Our demographics range from aging hippies to high-powered business people--who surf at 6:00 a.m., before calling their stockbroker. Most of the women of Malibu--many rich, famous and beautiful--show up at the supermarket sans makeup and designer clothing. It’s not uncommon to see people on horseback going to market at the west end of town.

Malibu has a sense of community like no other--based on survival. There’s a collective feeling of, “We’re all in it together.” Our four seasons are defined as fires, floods, earthquakes and mudslides. Once you get past the fear of disaster, there’s an indescribable beauty watching the forces of nature. These disasters bind the community. Nowhere else have I experienced acts of God bringing people together--over and over and over--with such warmth, sharing and concern.

In my previous Malibu home, where I lived for 14 years, we had block parties and community dinners. I have only lived at my current address for two years. So it wasn’t until last week, during the fires, that I finally met most of my neighbors. Odd time for a block party, but with fires, all you can do is watch and wait.

Mudslides are more proactive. Ever been to a sandbagging party? After the fires, the rains come, washing away the fragile hills--formerly held together by the recently burned chaparral--across PCH, into the ocean, sometimes through front doors, living rooms and out the patio to the Pacific. This occurs about every two years, motivating the local hardware stores to stock designer-color sandbags for semi-permanent installation.

By now you’re thinking we’re all nuts. Maybe you’re right. But most of us in the “Bu” would rather fight than switch. Malibu is a place of delicate balance--land, sea, air, nature and people all trying to co-exist.

Meanwhile, the experts are predicting the wettest winter in 100 years, so there’s a run on sandbags at the local outlets. This year, I’m thinking hunter green.