Red Tide

The term “normal,” as defined by the vast majority of Southern California residents, specifically that which pertained to weather conditions, was viewed by outsiders as pretentious and somewhat exaggerated. There were three conditions, of course, which challenged this opinion: hot, clear and sunny; a trio commonly known to linger until mid-fall, though sometimes, on rare occasion, did they embark upon the winter boundary, autumn thus left out altogether. And, to them, winter itself was nothing more than a flash in the pan, a collection of days spent on warm, snow-covered slopes in the higher elevations.

These perfectly cloned days, piled one on top of the other, made one particular day in question stand out; late June, 1967, a day forever etched into the minds of a small town, passed from one generation to the next, a story to live in the laps and knees of grandparents, captivating the minds of their wide-eyed grandchildren.

Downtown Arcadia began the day like any other, the early hours easing into relative calmness, while local shop owners were busy at work, removing debris from their storefront sidewalks, compliments of hobos who had rummaged through city trash receptacles the night prior; their hope, being the discovery of an abandoned treasure. And as always, deliciously brewed aromas spilled from Jennifer’s coffee house, which, for all intents and purposes, served as an effective tactic to ensnare those individuals hopelessly dependent on the extremely addictive, but legal, stimulant. Pastries, freshly baked in her on-sight ovens, were of no help to these creatures either, for they made their religious quest each and every morning to receive their much sought-after sugar and caffeine fix.

Automobile and pedestrian traffic grew with each passing minute. People focused on reaching their appointed destinations, working together like ants, each with a specific task for the greater good of the colony. These sights, sounds, and smells were all part of an integral system, woven together in a societal tapestry to create the essence of a bustling city poised to plunge into what appeared to be another glorious day.

Upon first impression the climate appeared in no way different from any other during that time of year. Warm blue skies blanketed a picturesque landscape, which abruptly shot up rugged mountain terrains to the immediate north.

A steady growth of homes was scattered throughout the foothills, hidden from a flourishing city below. Exorbitant price tags were slapped on these castle-like dwellings, and if a person had to inquire as how much, they had no business being there in the first place. But according to those vultures, the ones known to be real estate agents, these staggering prices were duly justified, as anyone who paid them could attest to. Views alone brought new meaning to “the sky’s the limit,” for, when night fell, it was like someone had flipped a switch. Scenery and mood transformed into a wondrous spectacle; the countless lights below like stars reflecting off an endless lake.

Year in and year out, Southern California residents enjoyed these predictable weather patterns. There had actually been a joke, rumoring that forecasters taped their shows weeks in advance, enabling themselves to take lengthy vacations away from what they deemed extreme weather conditions. In other words, anything more than a twenty degree drop fell below their tolerance level, a concept the average American citizen in other parts of the country would never understand.

Directly to the west, over the horizon, something of a smudge graced itself on the early morning portrait—nothing detectable unless someone knew where and what to look for. There it remained, hovering for the better part of the morning, set in hibernation, completely benign and oblivious to the outside world. The mass slowly darkened, however, while the awakening city came to life, much like a child rustling under the sheets as a mother attempted to bring him out of a dead sleep. Then without warning the balled mass began its subtle transformation. And there, between where the earth and sky came together as one, a distinct cloud formation materialized.

Nothing drastic occurred yet. The temperature held at a mild seventy degrees, but now played host to a subtle wind rolling in from the west where the newly formed clouds awaited for their cue to be called forth, still a harmless smear on the blue portrait.

A flock of crows became uneasy at this new turn of events, departing in haste from a cluster of trees that shaded the library parking lot across from the Shell station, their wings fluttering like thunderous applause at Carnegie Hall. The consensus among birds around the city became a single voice, and flock after flock dislodged themselves from their safe haven. Feathery bodies contrasted against deep blue, animating the skies above into a myriad of colors.

The following hour became the turning point. The low pressure system slipped into its predecessor’s place, and so afforded a seemingly benign cloud formation to advance towards a city, unaware of anything other than a picture-perfect day. The mass slowly continued to gain strength and momentum along the way, poised to unleash a cataclysmic event.

Gray clouds were soon transformed to dark black soot, a plausible threat on the western horizon, now noticeable to passersby. A shift in their pace then hastened to a stealthy march and, before the national weather service had a chance to assess the situation, the once-benign patch evolved into what could only be described as a cancerous rampage. Infection accelerated out of control, spreading instantly to devour blue chunks along the way.

Locals were caught off-guard by the unexpected intrusio