Neighbors…
There are precious few things capable of making an entire town stop what it’s doing.
An earthquake.
A horse loose in the Village.
A celebrity accidentally shopping at Gelson’s without sunglasses.
And…
A rocket launch from Vandenberg.
You can almost set your watch by it.
Somebody posts, “Does anyone know what that light is?”
Within thirty seconds another neighbor replies, “SpaceX.”
Then fourteen retired aerospace engineers materialize from seemingly ordinary white Tesla’s, to explain orbital mechanics with the quiet confidence of men who have corrected strangers on the internet since the Clinton administration.
But none of them…not one…is talking about the important part.
The silence.
Because the moment one of those rockets climbs into the western sky…something peculiar happens here.
The dogs stop barking.
The golfers stop golfing.
People wander into their driveways wearing slippers, bathrobes, and expressions usually reserved for witnessing the Second Coming or discovering Sprouts has discounted wagyu.
Even the coyotes seem to pause for a moment…
…as though they’re wondering whether they should’ve gone into engineering.
And then there’s the difference no one talks about.
A daytime launch is fascinating.
A nighttime launch…
…is religion.
Daytime launches are engineering.
Nighttime launches are mythology.
The sky fills with that impossible white plume…glowing against the darkness like somebody accidentally opened a zipper in the universe.
You don’t simply see it.
You stand there…mouth slightly open…trying to convince yourself you’re still in Rancho Santa Fe and not watching Close Encounters unfold over the Pacific.
Which brings me to last Thursday.
Because whilst the rest of us were staring at the sky…
…I happened to glance downward.
Every lizard had stopped.
Not one was doing push-ups.
Not one was conducting reconnaissance.
Not one was pretending to be decorative landscaping.
They were all…
…looking west.
Completely still.
Falcon Nine emerged from HOA headquarters carrying what appeared to be an emergency clipboard.
She looked up.
Lowered the clipboard.
Looked up again.
Sighed.
Walked away.
The Kombucha Cartel immediately declared the glowing plume “an energetic cleansing event” and began selling something called Orbital Alignment Elixir for nineteen dollars a bottle.
Three people bought two.
One bought a case.
Typical.
A retired Navy pilot calmly explained the launch trajectory to anyone willing to listen.
No one was.
Because something much stranger was unfolding beneath the eucalyptus.
For the first time in recorded Rancho history…
…the humans and the lizards were looking in exactly the same direction.
Nobody argued.
Nobody filed a complaint.
Nobody asked if the plume complied with architectural guidelines.
For almost three whole minutes…
…the Ranch achieved perfect unity.
And then…
…the rocket disappeared into the darkness.
People smiled.
Went back inside.
The coyotes resumed coyote business.
The golfers returned to missing four-foot putts.
Falcon Nine picked her clipboard back up.
The Kombucha Cartel raised prices.
Civilization reassembled itself with remarkable efficiency.
But one small gecko remained on a warm stone near the Village…
…still staring into the empty night sky.
Waiting.
I watched him for another minute before he finally nodded…
…almost imperceptibly…
…and whispered,
“See you next launch.”
Then he wandered off toward Nick & G’s…
…where I suspect the real debriefing had only just begun.
Viva Los Lagartijas.
Thomas D’Allesandro is a sometime Rancho Santa Fe resident who suspects the coyotes know more than they admit, the lizards are always listening, and the rockets are simply good for neighborhood morale.