Sleep slips away on nights when the Santa Ana winds arrive.
The rosebush thorns outside my bedroom window scrape against the glass like claws, and dust storms dangerously dance above my house. The winds create a cacophony of unsettling sounds that have become far too familiar to me.
The Santa Ana winds put me on edge, not with their howling, but because they toss everything around to their will, including my neighborhood’s trees. Though these firs have endured decades of wind, I can’t help but wonder if tonight they might finally fall.
My allergies flare up like clockwork in the days before the winds arrive. I usually keep the lid of an antihistamine bottle unscrewed when they hit.
The near-coastal air of Westwood eases my wheezing, but back home in the San Fernando Valley, I give in to my mother’s bitter herbal remedies for relief.
The wind wicks the balm from my lips. It snaps jacaranda tree branches, sends debris across sidewalks and destroys newly planted saplings in people’s backyards that stand no chance against its strength. My dog refuses to go outside and peers out nervously through a door frame.
Unwelcome guests, these winds spread ruination wherever they go.
Santa Ana winds are a defining feature of the region, formed when cold high-pressure winds from the Great Basin travel westward toward low-pressure areas along the Southern California coast. They increase in temperature and intensity along their journey, lending these winds their signature dry heat and strength.
They don’t just threaten homes. They fan the slightest spark into an inferno.
I recall the 2019 Saddleridge fire near my neighborhood, incited by a major Santa Ana wind event. I fell asleep to the wind’s howling and woke up to a darkened sky, flurries of ash and talk of school closures.
High wind warnings are enough to put communities on edge, especially those still reeling from past blazes.
The recent Palisades fire was another reminder of how quickly disaster unfolds. A dry winter made vegetation more prone to combustion, and Jan. 7 wildfires, aided by overwhelming wind gusts, took hold.
It’s hard to accept their presence, even as a Valley native. Although they are often mentioned in the forecast days in advance, it isn’t until a breeze becomes a strong gust in the blink of an eye that their sheer force makes itself known. They’ve gone to such extremes at times that I question if they’re really capable of knocking someone off balance.
The unpredictability of the winds is unsettling, a reminder of how little control we have. I was never fond of their roaring sounds. I felt like a dog hiding under a bed from thunder. Even as an adult I haven’t entirely been able to overcome that nervousness when they land.
Their destruction is well-known, but it’s the atmosphere they create – tense, unpredictable, volatile – that keeps a sense of unease lodged in my stomach.
I’m well aware that they’re only another facet of life, an undeniable feature of Southern California that sometimes becomes the subject of local inside jokes. It never really helped to think about that – it only heightened my concern.
The next Santa Ana wind event would always be a guarantee. It was just a matter of time.
It was not that long ago when I asserted that I’d had enough of my own nervous tendencies.
I remember being younger and imagining that the wind was the sound of waves crashing onto a shore. This helped me fall asleep during particularly rough Santa Ana winds.
It may have been childish, but at one point recently it worked – and brought me tranquility.
Obviously, there was nothing I could do to stop the Santa Ana winds except for slamming the window shut in private frustration. I came to the conclusion that it was up to me to find an oasis amidst the raucous winds.
I set aside the anticipation of what kind of debris I’d find in the morning – branches, leaves, fallen chairs – and decided to revert to that old way of thinking. I pictured the swaying of palm fronds and splashing of waves and sidled myself back into bed.
Every storm, after all, dies down eventually.