P.O. Box 53055    
Los Angeles, CA 90053   

"EVERYBODY'S BUILDING OVER HERE"

It was a hot, humid August night when Justin and his wife Tracy made the big decision. She'd been lounging on the bed, trying to stay in range of the slow-moving fan while she watched the latest Survivor program on CBS. With energy costs soaring all over California, they were trying to not run the air conditioning unless things got desperately warm. But that didn't stop Justin from bumping his way from one web site to another one just to see what kinds of bargains were out there. After just six years of marriage, and some lucky guesses on E*Trade, the young couple had an impressive portfolio to play with; in fact, Justin Thompson sometimes bragged to his friends that they should really bow low before him and call him "Justin Time" because he'd bailed out of Cisco when the stock had peaked at around 80.

Anyway, right when all the survivors took a commercial break from their coconut-tree-climbing contests, he suddenly clicked on the printer and began to spin out a gorgeous four-color brochure.

"Whatcha got?" Tracy asked him, as she mopped her damp forehead with the corner of the bedspread.

"You gotta look at these houses," he told her, tossing the first sheet of paper in her direction. "Actually, those are models, but you just buy the lots."
"Where abouts?"

"Right where we want one," he said, looking at the final sheet as it slid out of the color printer. "Malibu Shores, right on the beach. This builder has a partnership program where you pick the lot, and then if you have any skill at contracting" —

"Which you do," Tracy said, saluting him.

"Which I do" — he gave her a little mock bow — "then you actually work with Simonson and West builders to design and build the place you want. They give you a lot of help, plus all their connections, subcontractors, their getting stuff at cost, and all that. But you get the house you want, where you want, the kind you want, the whole nine yards."

Tracy turned off the TV and fanned herself with the pieces of paper from the laser printer. "Well, baby doll," she told him, "I don't care what kind of house you build me, or what lot you build it on. Just please, whatever you do, get one where the ocean breezes come gusting through the master bedroom. That's all I ask, and I'll love you till I die."

The very next weekend Justin and Tracy Thompson went out on the Pacific Coast Highway, and soon found themselves standing literally on the beach, checking out the available lots. And these were huge: great big oceanfront pieces of prime California property, with the roar of the surf right below where the dream houses were going to go up. Mindy, the real estate broker, ooh'ed and ah'ed when Justin told her he had a contractor's license already, and that he'd built several houses with his dad and his brother when they were still in high school. "That's fabulous," she told him. "You guys are going to get such a bargain here; I can't believe it."

"What all do you still have left?" Tracy wanted to know.
"You're standing on the best piece," the lady told her, glancing down at her buzzing cell phone before switching it off to keep the lookie-loos from fouling up a potential sale. "We have the ten parcels here that come right out to the edge of the shoreline, and then around the corner, there are two odd-sized lots that run a little more."

"How come they're higher?" Justin asked her.

And she gave a little impatient shake of her head. "Oh, the developer who owns the entire project just assigned all the prices and he wants more for them. See, right here, where you're standing right now, we're essentially on the beach. It's sand here and some good solid topsoil . . . but basically . . . beach. This is beach; that's why people want to live here. Around the bend there you are getting some property that is set on granite — but between you and me and the property stake markers — I wouldn't pay the extra money. Why bother?"

"Well, why's the builder want more then?" Tracy asked, wrinkling up her forehead. A little gust of breeze came spinning across the sand, and she sucked in her breath. "Mmmm! It's so nice and cool out here!"
"It really is," Mindy agreed. "But back to — you were asking about the builder?"

"Yeah."

She gave a little dismissive wave of her hand. "I guess you could always say that a rock foundation for your property is better. I mean, true, if the killer tidal wave of all time came along, the terrain right here is more fragile, obviously. And if a 9.0 Richter-scale rock-and-roll-show earthquake hit this part of town, sure, those two houses are going to be in the best shape. But look.

There aren't any fault lines coming anywhere near here. And I can show you weather patterns and how high the waves ever come along this stretch of real estate — and S&W Builders has all the satellite charts going back to when Richard Nixon was sunning himself just down the beach at San Clemente. You do get storms, but not the kinds of storms that are ever going to blow windows in on this stretch of real estate. It's just not something to worry about. So I always say, why pay the extra $75,000? Of course, if you want to, that's a bonus check of forty-five hundred for moi, but I just don't think it pays to spend money on that kind of what-if that ain't going to happen."

"Still," Justin said slowly, "someone's going to buy those two best pieces. If we're thinking long-term, maybe we should at least look."

"No problem," the lady with the company coat told them. "Glad to take you over there. But obviously, the majority of buyers are taking these lots right on the beach. The best view is right here; over around the bend, the peninsula here sticking out knocks off almost a good 40% of your ocean view. And you're definitely off in the corner there; just two families all by themselves versus being right here on Lover's Lane Malibu."

Justin kind of went "Hmmmm," trying to figure all the angles and how much of a mortgage it was going to take if he upgraded to the lots where all the rocks and stones were. But Mindy, the lady with the coat and calculator, had one more teaser sales bulletin to share. "Don't forget," she said, "that it's going to be a whole lot tougher building on those two lots out back. That's pure rock over there, and it's a bear to drill into for your pilings and all that. I don't know the construction jargon and all the words you boys throw around when you're drilling — and believe me, I don't want to know — but you can essentially count on adding at least six months to the project. Right here you can move the dirt and sand out of the way, and be framing in less than a week."

Well, that last piece of news cinched the deal. Together with Mindy the real estate lady, Justin and Tracy went back to the sales office, filled out the paperwork for the oceanfront parcel they'd been standing on, got their financing set the very next Monday afternoon, and within six weeks of time Mr. Justin "Time" Thompson was out on his own property, driving the heavy caterpillar equipment, moving sand and soil, and building his little bride a dream house right on the beach. The week before Thanksgiving they were able to move in, and on Turkey Day itself they had 15 friends over to watch the Cowboys play the Vikings on their big-screen TV in the living room with the huge glass panels that looked right out on the gray Pacific Ocean. It was a view to die for, and Justin spent the entire Thursday afternoon hearing his high school buddies tell him how lucky he was. A house on the sandy beach of Malibu. Unbelievable!

The pigskin contest on FOX had almost gotten down to the two-minute warning when a reporter for Channel 11 cut into the game with a breathless announcement. Swirling satellite photos showed a nasty hurricane front moving in from 600 miles off shore, and people all up and down the California coastline were being warned to evacuate their property. "And this is no joke," the anchorman said, adjusting his earpiece.

"Our radar sensors are telling us that this front could be packing some power unlike anything that's come along since the upheaval in ‘71. If you're on the shoreline between Pt. Mugu and Long Beach, the CHP is saying to get out right now. Don't wait for the end of the Dallas game; you just get in your car and get yourself inland. Go and watch the rest of this game at a Pizza Hut in Pasadena."

Tracy turned to her husband, her face white with terror. "Honey, what should we do? It's coming right at us."

Justin was about to answer when one of his racquetball friends, Steve, pointed out the picture window. "Whoa!" he said, fear thick in his throat. A huge tidal wave was rising up out of the gray currents, building higher and higher as it thundered its relentless way directly toward Malibu Shores and the fragile mansion built so precariously on the shifting sand.