mid october in venice beach is usually pretty damp and cool at night -
cool enough that i would wear a turtleneck and leather coat if i was going out walking.
dressing for warmth is something i never considered til living there (hot, sunny southern ca by the sea and all). on this particular evening, i walked a few miles north on the beach to the santa monica pier - pretty much empty since it was off tourist season, a monday night and gusty winds blowing in from the east strong enough to throw the fisherman off balance - never could figure out why anyone would ever want to eat the fish from the sm bay - locals wouldn't even swim there ...
i took a seat on an isolated section of the far western rail, perched above the crashing waves of the pacific with the wind at my face ... i should be freezing but i was sweating - not just moist, but really doing the verb - most uncommon ... i had to ask one of the frustrated fisherman how he did as he passed ... "no luck in santa anas' " ...
this was my first experience with her - mesmerizing, captivating, and strange - especially in contrast with the feel and sound of the ocean below ...
another time i felt something similar was on the costa del sol in southern spain with the hot dry winds from north africa blowing across the mediterranean - but nothing really compares to santa ana ...
a prayer for the safety of all being affected ...
from Michael Shaw -10.10.05 - blame it on the wind.
There is also the psychological component, the Santa Ana's mysterious and soul-vexing quality. Police agencies have attributed a jump in crime to these harsh winds, while hard-boiled detective fiction writer Raymond Chandler called the Santa Anas:
"Those hot dry [winds] that come down through mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen."
Or, take journalist/essayist/novelist Joan Didion's description of this phenomenon:
"I have neither heard nor read that a Santa Ana is due, but I know it, and almost everyone I have seen today knows it too. We know it because we feel it. The baby frets. The maid sulks. I rekindle a waning argument with the telephone company, then cut my losses and lie down, given over to whatever it is in the air. To live with the Santa Ana is to accept, consciously or unconsciously, a deeply mechanistic view of human behavior."
