Hansen: No such thing as a small fire in Laguna

No one noticed the sirens at first.

In Laguna Beach, you tend to ignore them. There are so many.

In some ways, the emergency vehicles are like the trolleys we wish we had: fast, reliable and seemingly constant.

So on Friday about 3 p.m., when the first wail warbled down the coast, no one in the grocery stores flinched. People continued getting their last-minute holiday supplies: sweet watermelon, corn on the cob, hamburgers and Vegemite patties.

But as you walked to the parking lot, you realized the sirens had been going off for a while. It was then you noticed one of those specialized fire rigs — yellow and built like a giant, squat water tank — rumbling by on a mission.

And out of the corner of your eye you saw the dark-brownish plume unfurling itself in the sky.

You quickly did the math and knew it was in the canyon.

It looked smallish, you thought, but that doesn’t always mean it will stay that way.

Instinctively, you rushed putting the groceries in the trunk, looking around for someone to talk to.

You grabbed your phone and called a friend in the canyon. No answer.

As you drove home along the coast, more fire trucks passed by just a little bit faster than normal, their sirens piercing every hilltop.

For anyone who was listening, Laguna was on alert.

Make no mistake, this Fourth of July will be remembered more for the fire scare than the actual sparklers over the water.

As you turned on the local radio station, you wondered about your own house, confident that it was too far away — probably.

Talk show host Billy Fried was suddenly filling you in on the fire. In his dulcet, earnest way, he told listeners there was a fire and asked for someone to call in if they had details.

Within minutes, music promoter Rick Conkey was on the horn from the Sawdust Festival, not far from where the fire started in the 1900 block of Laguna Canyon Road.

Ever the optimist, Conkey said, yes, there was a fire but come on down to the festival anyway.

Incredulous, Fried wondered aloud if that really was a good idea.

Conkey said officials had not shut down the festival, and the fire was moving in the opposite direction. At that point, he may have used the opportunity to plug his upcoming Blue Water Music Festival, but I might have imagined that part.

In no time, the canyon was closed to traffic in both directions. Planes and helicopters were in full force, dropping bright-red fire retardant like magic, candied sugar. It dusted the hills close to the Laguna College of Art + Design.

On the opposite side of the canyon, homeowners watched anxiously as the fire planes roared overhead, banked hard and dipped into the canyon as if they were strafing enemy targets with military precision.

Everyone talked among themselves, telling stories of the 1993 fire, comparing and contrasting.

Because this fire was conquered fairly quickly, people had time to breathe and reflect. There was an immediate if unsettled comfort.

It was as if with each plane’s streak of dusty red, a salve was put on the old burn.

For Laguna residents who experienced the big fire, there is this unspoken expectation, similar to the inevitable arrival of an earthquake. With the weather, drought and brittle dryness, it will happen again. The question is: How bad will it be?

Some outsiders may look at the “no fireworks” signs on every corner of Laguna with some resentment, but when you’ve seen the Santa Anas whip a blaze up close, you welcome the caution.

When you’ve seen stubborn dead flames resurrect themselves as if possessed, you become a believer.

When the sirens cry in Laguna, you learn to pay attention.

DAVID HANSEN is a writer and Laguna Beach resident. He can be reached at hansen.dave@gmail.com.