MORRO
BAY, Calif. — CALIFORNIA has only two seasons, rainy and dry. In March,
when the rains stop — assuming they have begun — we must forget about
precipitation for at least six months. The rainfall determines our mood
for the summer and fall. Where I live, on the Central Coast, 17 inches
of rain per winter has been the long-term average. Beating that number —
we last did it five years ago — feels like winning the lottery. Lately,
the average has been well under 10.
The
difference between a good rain year in California and a bad one depends
on the number of storms blowing in from the Pacific. One or two storms a
winter is bad; four to six, good. Even in wet, happy years, when we
shrug off floods and mudslides, rain is intermittent. Storms soak the
valleys and snow blankets the mountains for a day or two, but then
follows a week or two of sun. During the dry times, where we find
ourselves now, the long series of sunny days becomes a little scary. As
of Wednesday, the water content of the snowpack in the Sierra range was
lower than at any time since 1950. Relentless pumping of groundwater is
causing farmland to sink in the Central Valley.
As
the drought enters its fourth year, the voluntary tightening of water
use has failed to meet its goals. So this week Gov. Jerry Brown
instituted mandatory restrictions. Cities and towns will have to cut
their consumption by 25 percent, compared with 2013.
But
the state is so big and diverse that a dozen different droughts are in
effect. Northern Californians, blessed with racing rivers, have
relatively little to worry about, while around the megalopolis of Los
Angeles, the water sources are remote and aqueducts are lifelines.
Desert dwellers near Arizona and Nevada hardly perceive drought, while
coastal residents like me take false comfort from the ocean and standby desalination plants.
Yet
all across the state, skirmishes over a shrinking resource are taking
place. Having watched my neighbor wash his truck when he’s not supposed
to, now I’ll be justified in turning him in. More of us will report
violators to the city authorities — though perhaps without giving our
names. If the drought continues, California’s easygoing social compact
may crack and wither, too.
Although
aqueducts crisscross the state, half of Californians draw water from
local reservoirs and groundwater. Two communities facing each other
across Morro Bay — my town and the younger, more ragged community of Los
Osos — have adopted different approaches. About 20 years ago, we in
Morro Bay paid for a pipeline to tap into what’s called state water.
That makes us dependent on someone else’s allocations, but in a drought
we are in better shape than Los Osos, which relies solely on
groundwater. Under strain from overpumping, Los Osos aquifers are
threatened by chemical pollution and saltwater intrusion from the ocean.
Morro Bay has municipal wells as backup, and a desalination plant to
filter brackish groundwater. We try not to be smug.
About
30 miles inland, the city of Paso Robles is surrounded by ranches and
vineyards. This picturesque, rolling country is a favorite of
wine-tasting tourists. Unfortunately, the local reservoirs are below
capacity and groundwater pumping has lowered the water table so that
ranchers and landowners are finding that their wells are drying up.
Vineyard owners, who are relative newcomers, not only take the bulk of
the groundwater but also can afford deeper wells, so as to take more.
Class warfare is beginning. Even forming a committee to review the
problem has been divisive.
