From coastal paradise to cautionary tale.
Malibu isn’t just a zip code, it’s a lifestyle…or at least it was.
Not one, but two devastating wildfires in just seven years have gutted the soul of this once-iconic enclave, its utopian existence gone for good.
In January 2025, the Palisades Fire tore through like a wrecking ball, delivering the fatal blow to the very heart of our coastal community.
The flames torched history, leveled character, and turned some of Malibu’s historical landmarks and beloved hangouts into ash.
What’s was left just smoke and seawater. Charred remains of Malibu history. It was a gut punch to the community watched its identity go up in flames.
Finishing off what the Woolsey Fire started in 2018.
The Palisades Fire wasn’t just a wildfire, it was a
cultural extinction event.
And it didn’t have to be.
Malibu’s soul took its first devastating hit on November 9, 2018, when the Woolsey Fire tore through the canyons in a matter of hours causing the most damage in Western Malibu.
The flames were merciless, but the deeper wound came after the smoke began to clear. As if surviving one of the most catastrophic wildfires in California history wasn’t enough,
residents were dealt another, even more bitter truth: help wasn’t
coming.
The day after the historic firestorm, LA County fire engines sat parked at Zuma Beach, ordered to stand down while homes that dodged the first wave of flames went up in smoke.
Barricades kept out food, water, and even critical medical supplies.
Malibu had always thrived on a sense of community and connection, and in the days after Woolsey, that
spirit was tested in a way no one could have imagined. The fire didn’t just take homes, it stripped away the illusion that the public safety resources we counted on would be there when it mattered most. We were literally left to fend for ourselves.
The Woolsey fire scorched nearly 100,000 acres and destroyed more than 1,600 structures, revealed not just the fury of nature, but also the devastating failure of leadership and emergency preparedness at every level.
In search of answers, Malibu resident Paul Taublieb reached out to me to collaborate on documenting and investigating this fire. Taublieb spoke directly to Malibu’s top officials, including Mayor Rick Mullen, who also happened to be a high-ranking L.A. County Fire Department captain, and City Manager Reva Feldman.
What he uncovered was a disturbing mixture of political deflection and bureaucratic paralysis.
Mullen, in multiple interviews, dismissed concerns by insisting the fire was simply too large and too fast to fight, calling it unprecedented in scale and speed. He praised the response as “great,” while
simultaneously admitting there were things they “learned” that could be improved next time, a
contradiction that left many residents furious. When pressed on the total absence of local firefighting
efforts, Mullen shifted blame to the county.
In the aftermath of the Woolsey Fire, the anger toward Malibu City Hall had a clear focal point: City Manager Reva Feldman. As The Local Malibu reported, Feldman’s response wasn’t just inadequate, it was infuriating.
While residents were scrambling to smuggle in food, water, and medicine past barricades, Feldman was laser-focused on “reopening the city” rather than getting aid to the people still trapped inside it.
Her lack of urgency and tone-deaf priorities lit a firestorm of outrage that spread almost as fast as Woolsey itself. Public meetings turned into shouting matches. Longtime residents, many of whom had just lost everything, were openly calling for her resignation, demanding accountability from a leader who seemed more interested in playing politics than protecting lives.
Perhaps the most damning detail came from a city insider who spoke to Taublieb anonymously. That official described the evacuation routes as a “highway of death,” referencing the chaos on PCH as tens of thousands tried to flee with no coordinated traffic control. They also questioned whether the people inside the city’s fire stations were even certified firefighters, a chilling thought given how many homes were left to burn unchecked. That same official did not mince words about who was ultimately responsible: “Any problems are her responsibility,” they said of Feldman.
The failures extended far beyond logistical mistakes. They were failures of leadership, communication, and integrity. As residents watched their homes burn, they also witnessed a city structure crumble under the weight of its own denial. Instead of being protected by the officials they had trusted, and paid, to act in a crisis, they were left with barricades, silence, and excuses.
Taublieb’s account isn’t just a timeline of incompetence; it was a warning. What happened during the Woolsey Fire wasn’t just a natural disaster, it was a man-made failure of epic proportions. And as subsequent fires like the Palisades and Eaton catastrophes have shown, it may not have been an isolated one. The chilling implication is that what unfolded in Malibu in November 2018 was not just a tragedy, it was a preview of what was to come.
If the Woolsey Fire was a wake-up call, the Palisades Fire made it clear that no one will answer when the next disaster strikes.
Long before the Palisades Fire roared through Malibu in January 2025, Aaron T. Jones, CEO of International Protective Service, Inc. (IPS) and founder of its elite Aviation Division, was sounding the alarm.
This wasn’t theory for Jones; during the 2018 Woolsey Fire, IPS boots on the ground were already in the fight, assisting overwhelmed first responders when needed, securing properties, and providing on-the-ground intelligence when official channels were crippled.
Fast forward to May, 2024, Jones addressed local officials at the Malibu State of the City event. He didn’t just warn those in attendance about the next disaster, he came armed with proof that his team was armed with state of the art technology and additional resources to protect residents from the next disaster. He gave a stern warning
to officials to prepare now. It wasn’t about IF the next disaster woud strike, it was WHEN.
Jones handed Malibu leadership the opportunity to learn more about a fully operational wildfire detection and rapid-response plan, complete with Sikorsky helicopters, thermal-imaging drones, and surveillance tech most government agencies only dream about. The response? Crickets.
“They didn’t think lightning would strike twice, but it did,” Jones said, referencing the city’s
refusal to take wildfire readiness seriously after Woolsey scorched nearly 100,000 acres, destroyed 1,600 structures, and forced almost 300,000 people from their homes. Since then, CalFire data shows a 30% increase in annual wildfires and a 47% spike in “mega fires” across Southern California. Peak fire season now stretches nearly half the year, yet Malibu officials still treat every blaze like an unpredictable anomaly instead of an inevitability.
When the Palisades Fire hit om Januar 7th, 2025, it was too late. In just days, it scorched over 23,000 acres, destroyed nearly 7,000 structures, and killed 12 people, surpassing Woolsey’s destruction in lives lost and structural annihilation. The very same officials who had brushed Jones off were now blowing up his phone as if IPS were their personal 911.
Malibu wasn’t just at risk, it was under siege.
“This isn’t about politics,” Jones said afterward. “It’s about public safety. And if you’re in a leadership position, you better start leading – or step aside.”
The Palisades Fire may not have caused the same physical destruction as Woolsey, but its impact was deeply psychological. It confirmed what many had feared since 2018: that despite public statements, press conferences, and promises of reform, Malibu remained unprepared. The same breakdown in coordination between city, county, and emergency agencies persisted. The same disconnect between leadership and lived experience resurfaced.
Together, these two events paint a sobering picture, not just of natural disaster, but of institutional failure. Malibu has endured fire, loss, and disruption. But more than anything, it has endured the consequences of a system that still struggles to put people ahead of politics, and prevention ahead of public relations.
Now, as Malibu’s cultural scars deepen, so do the economic ones—revealed most starkly by investors circling the coast. Los Angeles Magazine reports that a mysterious foreign investor has quietly spent $65 million purchasing nine oceanfront lots along Pacific Coast Highway that were burned in the January 2025 Palisades Fire, an area where 340 homes were destroyed. This acquisition, reportedly made with little resistance, underscores the merciless calculus of real estate speculation in tragedy zones.
Reports indicate this buyer specifically targeted beachfront parcels; many owners, still reeling from the devastation or overwhelmed by the rebuilding process, were more willing to sell. The rebuild timeline, estimated at 12 to 24 months for permits, makes holding these lots a long-term play, banking on a spike in value once the coastline is rebuilt.
Empty beachfront lots are already commanding millions, one 6,200-square-foot parcel with direct beach access is currently listed at $2.75 million, despite having no structure. The desirability of Malibu land, even in the face of wildfire risk and insurance obstacles,remains attractive to investors and developers.
The irony is stark: the same fires that stole Malibu’s iconic establishments are now unlocking vast speculative opportunities,
transforming loss into raw land assets for wealthy entrepeneurs, even as the local community continues to mourn and rebuild.
One thing these new landowners will never experience is the Shangri-la Malibu once was, and likely will never be again.
Follow continuing coverage on the Palisades Fire aftermath on our sister publication Malibu Daily News.
