Newport mobile home park’s fate: ‘Our people cannot downsize. They are down.’

Rumors were already circulating among residents at Ebb Tide Mobile Home Park when a letter arrived that confirmed their fears.

Dated July 10, the note was delivered to the 63 occupied units. It contained the news that no tenant ever wishes to hear: They could be forced to move as early as May.

Discussions were underway for a new residential development, which current tenants likely couldn’t afford. The 4.65-acre piece of land is in Newport Beach, after all, just a mile from the ocean.

At least one resident went to sleep crying. But another tenant, June Maier, 71, was relieved finally to have the information.

Now that she knew what was happening, Maier could begin trying to figure out how to stop it.

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Maier moved six years ago from Las Vegas to Newport Beach, where her daughter and son-in-law were raising four children.

But living in a Newport Beach apartment cost Maier $1,800 per month — an amount the retired schoolteacher soon realized was not appropriate for her budget.

Still, she felt uncomfortable moving into her daughter’s fancy residence; it didn’t feel right, given her “blue collar roots.”

So Maier moved to a cheaper apartment, and eventually found a place she much preferred: mobile home C-1 at Ebb Tide.

Maier knew it was perfect the moment she spied the white cabinets and black-and-white flooring in the kitchen.

There would be room for her to plant tomatoes in a yard to the side, and the patio could be enclosed so her dog, Max, could have more room to roam where she could watch him.

And, perhaps most important, she could afford it.

*

Three and a half years after Maier moved in, the letter about the pending eviction arrived.

Maier wouldn’t be left stranded. But she had gotten to know the other residents and felt they would “have a very hard time finding another place and impossible time finding something similar to what they have now,” she said.

And so she was determined to look for a way they could stay.

The community advocate read widely about recent mobile-home park closures in the area. She learned about Anchor Trailer Port a few streets away, where 43 spaces for mobile homes had been replaced with new homes now selling for prices starting in the mid-$700,000s.

To try to avoid that fate, she figured out, Ebb Tide first needed a homeowners association.

*

Maier would be association secretary. She dug up white notebooks from her school-teaching days and filled them with pertinent information for a president and vice president.

The trio would be of the same mindset: residents who wanted to stay.

“I’m furious,” declared Chuck Cline Sr., 77, who had agreed to serve as president. “Why do they have to pick on us to do what they want?”

He paused. A breeze blew over the $3,000 porch that he added to the front of his mobile home, where he has lived since 1988.

Then Cline answered his own question: “That almighty dollar.”

For many at the park, rent is about $800. Cline is a retired Army veteran. He noted that his neighbor, who has two daughters, is gone from morning until night, working to make ends meet.

“Most people who live here live check to check,” explained Jim Eifler, 52, the association’s vice president.

Eifler is employed by the city and had simply hoped to live in the park until he retired.

But there was the woman whose daughter was disabled, and the man who was deaf.

What would they do if they had to move?

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At the first association meeting, attended by more than 20 residents, Maier listened as residents critiqued the “unsettling” letter, which one said should have been sent by the park’s owner, rather than the proposed buyer. Maier was worried it should also have been translated to Spanish.

“All voiced opinion that they wanted to stay here,” she wrote in the meeting’s minutes.

Armed with a sense of the community’s concerns, Maier met with a city planner. Perhaps she could find information the letter did not provide.

They sat in a sunlight-filled conference room at the Civic Center and together looked through details on the proposed development.

It would consist of 83, single-family detached homes, concept plans showed. And though Newport Beach did not have any inclusionary housing requirements that restricted its construction, the proposal still wasn’t in compliance with city code.

Forceful, yet polite, Maier demanded information on the process for approving the project. She learned that once staff cleared it, the plans would need a majority vote at the Planning Commission and the City Council.

In the meantime, she could rally residents to be prepared to comment at both meetings.

“Some people are overwhelmed, they’re in denial,” Maier explained, her notebook in front of her. “Our people cannot downsize. They are down.”

And yet the property owner had the right to sell the land to the new company, Ebb Tide, LLC, proposing to develop it.

*

Less than an hour before the next HOA meeting would begin, Maier was in her mobile home, drawing an outline of the park on poster board.

She wanted to present the idea of residents buying all — or a portion — of the park — something that had been done elsewhere in the state.

“I have no idea what’s going to happen tonight,” she said.

Soon, Eifler stopped by and saw the poster board plans.

“You’re a dreamer, aren’t you?” he said.

More than 30 people attended the second meeting, brought to order in the clubhouse with the pounding of Cline’s gavel on a folding table.

Maier and Eifler sat on either side, positioned in front of a sign on the wall that read, “No facts! Just rumors!”

“We want to know what we can do to stop the sale,” Cline announced to the crowd. “... We have to fight together. We have to stick together.”

*

At first, the most promising option for those who wished to remain seemed to be buying the park.

Maier held up her poster board, as representatives in attendance from the Golden State Manufactured-Home Owners League explained how they could help get them a loan. It would be paid back over time through money collected from rent.

Ray Downing, an area vice president with the organization, explained that he had helped to stop sales before.

This negotiation might also be halted, and the park purchased, he said. Rent might even drop when the loan was paid in full, he added with a grin.

It sounded good, but concern arose. Tenants worried over what would happen if their offer to buy wasn’t accepted.

“I want to die here if I want,” said Gary Esparza, a 23-year resident. But Esparza also said he doubted any attempt at ownership by current tenants would work.

Another wondered if they might get a better deal without putting up a fight.

Maier gestured toward pages from a relocation impact report the city planner had sent her. She had printed and posted some pages on the walls, which included an offer of $12,500 for each mobile home owner to leave his or her unit or to remove it at personal cost.

A set amount of moving fees and the help of a “relocation specialist” would also be provided, the proposal said.

Those present were baffled and infuriated. They wondered why the property manager wasn’t there to tell them himself about the report, which is under review by city staff and will need to be cleared by the Planning Commission and the City Council along with the project plans.

*

In reality, owners could walk away with enough to put a down payment on a new home, Joe, the property manager who declined to provide his last name, said in a telephone interview.

He added that he had talked to residents about the pending closure deal, and by his impression, many are open, and even excited by, the proposal.

“It’s a win-win for everybody,” he said.

The main obstacle, he added, would be helping residents to face a fear of change.

In place of the aging mobile homes, the new homes had been designed in a modern architectural style, said Sunti Kumjim, project manager for Ebb Tide LLC.

“They should be some of the most affordable new homes in Newport Beach,” he said, declining to offer a price range.

Neither Joe nor Kumjim disclosed the asking price for the property.

*

After reviewing the sign-in sheet from the meeting, Maier said roughly half of the units owned, 24, were represented.

She knew that at least three people were ready to go, such as 20-year resident Caryn Baiza.

Blue swatches of paint were still on the outside of Baiza’s mobile home, painted as they prepared last year to do a $30,000 remodel. The owner had declined to sign the necessary permits.

Her two daughters, now 19 and 23, grew up there, but she and her husband had since decided it was time to go. They were already looking for a new place.

But Maier plans soon to go door to door and talk with the others.

“Listen,” she will say, “It’s not all over, and it hasn’t even started yet.”