Science
‘The Interview’: Ed Yong Wants to Show You the Hidden Reality of the World
The science journalist and author Ed Yong likes to joke that during the first wave of Covid-19 in 2020, the impact and reach of his reporting for The Atlantic turned him into “a character in the season of ‘Pandemic.’” Indeed, his Covid journalism — which documented the earliest stages of the pandemic and made him one of the first chroniclers of long Covid — established Yong as a key and trusted public interpreter of the illness and its many ripples. It also won him a Pulitzer Prize. (Additionally, Yong’s 2022 book about animal perception, “An Immense World,” became a best seller. A young reader’s edition will be published on May 13.)
But despite having achieved a level of success and attention that most writers can only dream of, Yong’s immersion in Covid left him feeling as utterly depleted as many of the health care professionals and patients he was covering. So much so that in 2023, he decided to leave his prestigious perch at The Atlantic. Since then, in addition to working on a new book, he has found a measure of salvation, even transcendence, in birding, a pastime that he, like so many others, took up in the wake of those grim days of social distancing and time stuck inside.
So as we approach the fifth anniversary of the U.S. pandemic lockdowns, I wanted to talk with Yong about his Covid lows, his hopeful response to those struggles and his perspective on the lessons we learned — or maybe more accurate, didn’t learn — from that strange and troubling time.
I want to start with a subject that a lot of people can relate to: burnout. How did you realize that you had given all that you had to give? I remember talking to public-health experts for a story and hearing people say that they were feeling depressed, anxious, they couldn’t sleep, and thinking, Man, that feels very familiar. That was in June of 2020. By the middle of 2023, I realized that I was doing my best work at severe cost to all of the other parts of myself. I actually dislike the word “burnout.” It creates this image that the person in question did their job, the job was really hard and after a while they couldn’t stand how hard it was and they stopped doing it. Which I don’t think is correct. A lot of the health care workers I spoke to said that it wasn’t that they couldn’t handle doing their job. It was that they couldn’t handle not being able to do their job. They saw all of the institutional and systemic factors that prevented them from providing the care that they wanted to provide. For them, it was more about this idea of moral injury, this massive gulf between what you want the world to be and what you see happening around you. At some point that becomes intolerable. I think that’s much closer to my experience of pandemic journalism too.
Do you have any answers for how to contextualize your feelings in a world where people are struggling for subsistence or with the threat of violence? I often think, when I’ll be low, What right do I have to complain? I’m sure you must have had similar thoughts. This is a great point because you don’t even have to go to that extreme of folks who are struggling to get by, folks who are in the middle of war zones. Let’s just talk about the people whose stories I’m trying to tell. What right do I have to say, “I have listened to your stories, and I’m trying to write about them, and that, for me, is too hard”? Doesn’t that sound a little bit pathetic?
There is something absurd about it. One hundred percent there is.
And yet, the feelings are real. Right. I’ve had this conversation with friends and with my therapist a lot. I think that if we as journalists do our job correctly, what we end up doing is extending as much empathy as we can to the people we are writing about, so that we can correctly characterize and convey their experiences to the world. Empathy really does mean, for me, spending days listening to the worst moments of dozens of people’s lives, having them run through my head again and again so that I can turn them into something that might shift the needle in someone who has never thought about those experiences. I’m sitting here still questioning myself about whether it’s ridiculous to say that that’s hard, but what I can tell you is that I know it’s hard because I felt it. I think that’s enough.
You’ve been clear in saying that Covid has not gone away. You ask people to wear masks at your events. But that attitude is not necessarily where the rest of the world is. How do you think about continuing to take precautions and advising others to do so when it feels as if society has moved on? I do it for a bunch of reasons. Firstly, I have learned that I enjoy not being sick. I know that the cost of long Covid is real and substantial, and I don’t want to run that risk lightly. I also know that I have many friends and people I’m close to who are immunocompromised. So for the sake of the people around me, I also don’t want to get sick. When I do events, I wear a mask for those reasons, and because I know that every time I do a talk, while the vast majority of people in the audience have probably moved on, there are going to be other people who haven’t. I think it makes a huge difference to them to have the person at the front of the stage wear a mask. It tells them, It’s not weird. So I do it for that reason, too. In terms of holding this line at a point when a large swath of society has moved on, I have written a lot about the panic-neglect cycle.
What’s that? The idea is, a crisis happens. Let’s say a new epidemic. Attention and resources flow toward that, people take it seriously, freak out, and then once the problem abates, so, too, does everything else. The resources dwindle, the attention goes away and we lapse into the same level of unpreparedness that led to the panic in the first place. This is real. I’ve seen it through my reporting. I’ve seen it for Ebola, for Covid — you name it.
Bird flu? Sure, why not? All of which is to say, for all of those reasons, I don’t feel self-conscious about still being cautious at a time when most people aren’t. I personally don’t want to lapse into the neglect phase, because I don’t think it’s warranted.
This has been blaring in the back of my mind the whole time we’ve been talking: How worried are you about a bird-flu pandemic? I try not to answer questions on things I haven’t specifically reported on because it is hard to make sense of all this. I didn’t come to these views on Covid lightly. So, specifically how worried am I about bird flu? On a scale of 1 to 10? I don’t know.
I’ll rephrase the question: How worried should I be about bird flu? That’s an even harder question. What I will say is that it is a threat that we should absolutely take seriously. In all likelihood the next pandemic will be a flu one, whether it’s H5N1 or something else. So the specifics of my level of worry about this particular pathogen are subsumed in this ambience of worry about everything. We live in a world where new viruses will have an ever easier time of jumping into us, and where the infrastructure of our societies continues to be poorly suited to handling those threats. If you think about what happened with Covid, why did the U.S. fare so badly? There’s all of these things that people rarely think of in terms of pandemic preparedness: It’s social stuff and, crucially, a lack of trust in government and one another that turns a pandemic into a true disaster. All of those problems are still with us, and, I would argue, are worse than they were in early 2020. The way that it’s often framed is: “Tell me, on a scale of 1 to 10, how worried you are that H5N1 is going to go pandemic.” I think the more important question is, if it does, how screwed are we? And the answer is: really.
So you were dealing with the feelings we talked about earlier, and you got to a point where you decided your life had to change. One of the things that then changed your life was birding. How did you find it? In the spring of 2023, just before I left The Atlantic, I moved to Oakland from D.C., and one thing that happened was I started paying attention to the birds around me. They were omnipresent in a way they weren’t before. On my first day in my new house, there was an Anna’s hummingbird in the garden. I would go for walks and hear birdsong: the melodious sound of a Pacific wren in a nearby redwood forest. I bought a pair of binoculars and would take it with me on neighborhood walks or hikes. I would have Merlin while I was working and look up occasionally and go: “Oh, that’s interesting. It’s an oak titmouse. I’ve never seen one before.” To me, the difference between being casually bird-curious and being an actual birder is making a specific effort to go and look at birds.
Going from passive to active. Exactly. So early September of 2023 was when I made my first trip to a local wetland to specifically look at birds and nothing else. That was, honestly, a life-changing moment.
Can you put me back in that moment? I went to a place called Arrowhead Marsh. It’s this relatively small stretch of wetland that has a boardwalk sticking out into this little chunk of bay, and on that day, I saw all these creatures. I’ve been writing about animals since I’ve been writing about anything, but a lot of my knowledge of the natural world, if you want to be reductive, it’s just trivia. Whereas the knowledge I gained from birding, that started on that boardwalk, feels rooted in the lives of the birds themselves in time and space. I look at the birds, and I see how they behave. Small things that I would never have noticed if I was just reading scientific publications. Those two halves, the academic side and the more lived knowledge, beautifully interact with each other. And the thing that I felt palpably at that place on that day, that I still do every time I go birding, is this incredible sense of being present.
When you’re watching birds — and this could apply to the natural world writ large — there is so much going on that is basically beyond our comprehension. Because of our sensory capabilities as human beings, we are condemned to having only an ankle-deep understanding of what it is to be alive on Earth. To me, that’s humbling and mind-blowing. What do you think? I fully agree. I mean, that is a beautiful précis of basically my entire body of work.
Nailed it! [Laughs.] I can go home now, right? All of it is about the idea that much of the world is hidden from us, that we don’t perceive it and don’t understand it, and that it is worth understanding and it is necessary to understand. I’m now working on Book 3, and I see them as a trilogy that all touch on this theme. “I Contain Multitudes,” the first book, was about the microbes that live inside our bodies and those of other animals, and the enormous influence they play in our lives. “An Immense World” is about how other creatures perceive things that we miss, and about how each of us is perceiving only a thin sliver of the fullness of reality, which is a wonderfully humbling concept. The book that I’m currently working on takes those themes and runs with them. The book is called “The Infinite Extent,” and it is about life at different scales. It is about what it is like to be the size of a blue whale or the size of a bacterium, to live for millennia like a bristlecone pine, or for just a few hours like a mayfly. It’s about these extremes of experience and existence.
I have a curmudgeonly question. Developing an awareness of the magic that’s happening all around us at any given moment, and understanding that there’s this vast cosmic dance playing out — in the abstract, I can see how internalizing those perspectives might change one’s perspective. Sometimes I’m able to get to that place. But the way I’m picturing it in my head is like, I blow up a beautiful balloon. I’m carrying that balloon around and looking up at the balloon: What a beautiful balloon I’m carrying with me. Then I get to the office, and the balloon pops on the halogen light, and I’m back in the [expletive]. Did your understanding of the bigger existential stuff you were writing about actually help you in the moments when you were struggling? I can say that thinking about these ideas constantly really helped me. It felt like a salve to all of that moral injury and despair that I was feeling. It doesn’t cure it, but it fills my life with wonder and joy, and that acts as a buffer against all the other existential dread and fear that we have to grapple with. One thing I’ve said about science as a field is that it is one of the only areas of human endeavor that take us out of ourselves. We exist at a time when we are being crunched ever inward. Whether it’s through a novel virus, or frayed social connections, or algorithms that feed us more of what we already were seeking out. There is a kind of implosive effect of the modern world, and the science and nature writing that I’m prioritizing, and the birding that I do, are all counters to that. They are a way of radiating your attention outward. I’m still wrestling with the curmudgeonly question that you asked. Like, does any of that matter? Sometimes when I go out and look at birds, there’s a voice in my head that says, Is this really the best thing you could be doing with your time?
It’s a dropout solution. Totally, because often people talk about birding as escapism, and there’s something about the word “escapism” that has a slight negative connotation. I had a conversation with a good friend about this, and what she said was, “I think it’s more important than ever to be out in the world.” I agree with that. We need to replenish ourselves, and it matters, because for those of us who care about biodiversity and diversity and the environment and equality, we need to be connected to the thing that we are fighting for. And if we don’t do that, then the work, the fights, become abstract.
So, putting work aside, one could reasonably feel a sense of moral injury just as a result of living in the world right now. We can change our work situation, or at least try, but changing the bigger problems is beyond our scope. Any advice for how to get through that feeling? A nice softball question! There are three ideas that come to mind. One is a quote from the amazing Mariame Kaba, who says, “Hope is a discipline.” She argues that hope is not this nebulous, airy thing. It is a practice that you cultivate through active effort. I think of a line by the great and late global-health advocate Paul Farmer, who said that he “fought the long defeat.” By which he meant that he was often swimming against forces that were extremely powerful, and he knew that he was going to suffer defeats and setbacks, and that he was going to fight nonetheless. Then the third one is an idea called the Stockdale paradox, which was named after Vice Adm. James Stockdale, who was a prisoner of war. When he was finally released, after a long time in captivity, he was asked how he managed to survive what he endured, and he talked about how he made it because he was able to hold two seemingly contradictory ideas in his head at the same time. One was the full and brutal realization of his situation, combined with the indomitable hope that things could get better. These three ideas anchor me in these moments when it feels like the gulf between what we hope the world should be and what it actually is seems vast and growing. That gulf is agonizingly difficult to bear, but we bear it nonetheless.
I’d like to wrench the conversation away from heavier topics. Tell me a cool scientific fact that you learned while you were researching your next book. Something that gave you delight. You know, I’m writing a section of the book that is about hummingbirds. The fact that hummingbirds have iridescent colors that are especially vivid at certain angles. The Anna’s hummingbird is a great example of that. In some angles it looks like this vivid capital-“M” magenta jewel. Then it might turn its head and look black and dark. Those colors are not inherent to the feathers themselves. They occur because the feathers have rows of tiny disc-shaped structures that are arranged perfectly at the nanoscale. The light they reflect interferes with and amplifies each other specifically in red wavelengths, and specifically at certain angles. I think about all that I’ve learned through scientific papers and talking with scientists, but I also know the things I’ve learned from watching hummingbirds as a birder. They are small bundles of sass and fury, and I love them for that. This is sort of what I meant when I said that my world now is this mix of the academic and the experiential. It’s all these sides of nature colliding in every single experience — and it’s wonderful.
This interview has been edited and condensed from two conversations. Listen to and follow “The Interview” on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, YouTube, iHeartRadio, Amazon Music or The New York Times Audio app.
Director of photography (video): Aaron Katter
Science
As mosquitoes go year-round in L.A., a promising fix hits a snag
Residents were supposed to get a respite from the ankle-nipping mosquitoes that fueled a recent surge in dengue fever in Los Angeles County.
Typically, the invasive mosquitoes — called Aedes aegypti — essentially disappear from winter until early May in the region.
Instead, complaints to local agencies tasked with controlling the pests spiked recently.
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“We have not seen them go away altogether like they have in previous years,” said Susanne Kluh, general manager for the Greater Los Angeles County Vector Control District.
Their unusual presence adds to the urgency of work going on in a 40-foot shipping container tucked away in Pacoima. It’s about to transform into a bustling nursery for tens of thousands of mosquitoes.
This May, the district is set for the third year in a row to release legions of sterilized male mosquitoes — which don’t bite — into parts of Sunland-Tujunga.
The last two years were promising, with the female population in two treated neighborhoods plunging by an average of more than 80%.
Yet business owners have signaled they’re not willing to pay to expand it.
That’s thrown uncertainty into officials’ goal of eventually bringing the approach to their whole service area, spanning 36 cities and unincorporated communities.
Steve Vetrone, assistant general manager at the Greater L.A. district.
(Ronaldo Bolanos / Los Angeles Times)
“Unfortunately, that’s going to be a rather expensive endeavor,” said Steve Vetrone, an assistant general manager for the district. “I can tell you right now that’s not something that we can do with our current operating budget.”
A need, an ask and a disappointing answer
Aedes aegypti are a new-ish local fixture. Native to Africa, the black-and-white striped mosquitoes were first detected in California in 2013 and landed in L.A. County the following year.
“Despite our best efforts, they’ve been able to just outpace us, and they’re now in every city and community within our district,” and all of Southern California, Vetrone said. In fact, the low-flying, day-biting mosquitoes are present in nearly half of California’s counties, including Shasta in the far north.
Desperate to find a solution, many are trying the so-called sterile insect technique — including vector control districts serving Orange and San Bernardino counties, as well as the San Gabriel Valley — and “we kind of all hope that this is going to be our silver bullet,” Kluh said.
The idea is fairly simple: unleash sterile males so that they far outnumber wild ones — say, 10 to 1 or even 100 to 1. The goal is for the altered males to mate with females, producing eggs that don’t hatch.
Kluh’s district uses X-rays to sterilize males but there are other methods, such as using genetically modified insects or ones infected with bacteria.
Female mosquitoes are fed different types of blood — pig and cow — to see which leads to the most eggs.
(Ronaldo Bolanos / Los Angeles Times)
The technique, while promising, requires time and money.
In California, property owners foot the bill for local mosquito (and other pest) control, with some paying an annual fee called a benefit assessment.
Levying a new fee requires approval from home, apartment and business owners, in accordance with Proposition 218.
To unleash sterile male mosquitoes in a broader swath of the Greater L.A. district, officials are seeking up to $20 a year per single family home. That would be on top of $18.97 that homeowners now pay for the agency’s services.
Last April, the district sent out 50,000 sample ballots to property owners, asking if they’d support the increase.
Only 47% of those returned were in favor.
“Data showed that single family homeowners were pretty supportive, but fewer business owners with larger parcels and potentially higher dues did not see the benefit in the additional expense,” Kluh said in an email.
Business owners might not live in the area, but their vote — if their property spans several acres — is weighted more heavily.
Times readers, commenting on a story from last year about the proposal, responded favorably.
“I hate mosquitos because they love me so much,” one reader said. “I would happily spend $20 to reduce their populations! I probably spend more [than] that on repellent.”
Officials haven’t given up, and plan to send out another round of sample ballots next year.
Kluh already has talking points for businesses in her back pocket: Restaurant owners should have an interest in making outdoor dining more pleasant, while apartment owners could lose revenue if their renters are sickened by an outbreak of Zika, chikungunya or yellow fever — all diseases transmitted by Aedes aegypti, she said.
Making mosquitoes that can’t reproduce
On a recent tour of the Pacoima insectary, Nicolas Tremblay, a senior vector ecologist with the district, whipped out a small container filled with a handful of what looked like vitamins.
But the clear pill cases were filled with about 6,500 mosquito eggs and bovine liver powder.
Nicolas Tremblay, senior vector ecologist, tapes trays to indicate pill capsules filled with mosquito eggs were placed in water.
(Ronaldo Bolanos / Los Angeles Times)
The pills are dropped into trays of water, where the eggs hatch and the larvae feed on the powder. It takes about nine days to go from egg to buzzing adult.
The males are then chauffeured to Garden Grove, where they’re zapped with X-rays. Then they’re driven back and set free the next day.
“It’s crazier around August, September, is when we’ll probably reach our peak production” of up to 72,000 mosquitoes a week, he said. “All these [trays] would be full of water and mosquitoes.”
In 2024, the district launched its pilot, releasing nearly 600,000 sterilized males in two Sunland-Tujunga neighborhoods over about five months.
The population of Aedes aegypti females dropped by an average of 82% compared with a control area.
The stakes became clear that year, when California reported 18 locally acquired dengue cases — a sharp rise from the first-ever cases confirmed the year before.
Last year, the pilot saw similar success, though there was also a natural drop in activity districtwide.
On the recent visit to the insectary, several hundred mosquitoes flew around in white mesh cages, serving as participants in a study to see which blood they prefer — pig or cow.
“We haven’t completed the trials yet, but it seems like they didn’t care,” he said.
One thing scientists already know: Aedes aegypti love biting people.
A highly adaptive foe
The invasive mosquitoes can lay their eggs in tiny amounts of water. A bottle cap or crease in a potato chip bag is fair game.
What’s more, mosquitoes in the Greater L.A. district are resistant to a lot of pesticides.
Now, there might be a new concern. Typically, the invasive mosquitoes go into a type of hibernation every year.
Kluh said it appeared that they may have mutated in a way that allows them to stay active through the winter.
A warming climate has already expanded their season and allowed them to move into formerly inhospitable regions.
Releasing sterilized males involves no pesticides, and also leverages the insect’s biology: Males in lust are adept at finding females.
Many residents are thrilled by the promising tool, but others bristle at the idea of manipulating nature.
“There’s folks that are in favor and then there are folks that are just absolutely opposed because it’s like, ‘You’re playing God,’” Vetrone said.
Science
Record Heat Meets a Major Snow Drought Across the West
At this point in a typical year, as the seasons officially turn from winter to spring, snowpack would still be accumulating across the Mountain West.
But this winter wasn’t typical, even before a heat wave this past week. It was the warmest on record for six Western states. Snow cover is the lowest level on record for the Colorado River Basin, and across much of the rest of the West, there are record or near-record low amounts of snow.
That alone would create a challenging year for water managers, who rely on slow and steady snowmelt to feed streams, rivers and reservoirs and meet spring and summer demand for irrigation and drinking water. While rainfall runs off quickly and can more readily evaporate from soil, snowpack serves as a valuable and lasting source of moisture and accounts for a majority of water supplies across the region, as much as 80 percent in some areas.
Current snowpack compared to historical averages
The intense heat wave threatens to make water management all the more challenging.
Much of the thin snowpack was already “ready to melt” before the heat set in, said Jon Meyer, assistant state climatologist at the Utah Climate Center. “This is the nail in the coffin.”
It’s unusual to see the whole West like this, said Leanne Lestak, an associate senior scientist at the University of Colorado Boulder who specializes in mapping snow and how much water it holds.
In early March, Ms. Lestak and her team found that vast majority of the Western United States had less than two-thirds of the amount of snow typical for this time of year, with few exceptions. In Arizona and parts of Nevada, New Mexico and Oregon, snowpack was less than a quarter of what it would usually be.
“The situation is pretty dire,” Dr. Meyer said.
The heat wave is also increasing the already-elevated fire risk across some drought-stricken areas. In Nebraska, drought set the stage for the largest wildfire in state history, which broke out last week and has not yet been contained.
The conditions that led to this year’s low snowpack are unusual, too. Snow droughts often develop from dry weather patterns that starve the West of any significant precipitation during the winter, said Dan McEvoy, a climatologist at the Desert Research Institute and Western Regional Climate Center.
But in many places, it wasn’t necessarily a dry year, he said. Instead, temperatures have been so warm that precipitation has fallen as rain, rather than snow, even at higher elevations.
Many of the mountaintops could still see some more snowfall. But as Cody Moser, a hydrologist with the Colorado Basin River Forecast Center in Salt Lake City, looks ahead to predicting how the spring will go, he doesn’t foresee any significant change in weather patterns. Now he’s expecting peak snowmelt flows to occur earlier than ever recorded in many locations, he said this week.
“I think it’s highly likely we’ve seen peak snowpack,” Mr. Moser said.
Snowpack feeding the Colorado River reaches historic lows
Even after a winter that was the warmest on record for Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, Utah, Wyoming and Oregon, the heat that set in across much of the West this past week was extreme. Meteorologists said they were expecting to set record highs for the month of March in many locations, and the earliest arrivals of 100-degree temperatures in records that go back more than a century.
Across the Colorado River Basin, even at elevations as high as 10,000 feet, temperatures were forecast to surge into the 50s and 60s Fahrenheit on Friday and Saturday, Mr. Moser said, some 15 to 20 degrees warmer than average.
Relatively light winds and dry air over the region could limit snowmelt to some degree, he said, but the warmth and sunshine may prevent some moisture from ever reaching stream beds, said John Fleck, a water policy expert at the University of New Mexico.
“A lot of it is going to evaporate off before it even has a chance to hit the stream,” Mr. Fleck said.
This heat wave is so extreme that it would only be expected to occur once about every 500 years in the current climate, according to World Weather Attribution, a group of scientists who study links between extreme weather events and climate change.
“These temperatures are completely off the scale for March, and our data shows that they would be virtually impossible in a world without human-caused climate change,” said Ben Clarke, a research associate in extreme weather and climate change at Imperial College London.
In places like the Colorado Front Range, home to the majority of that state’s population, snowpack serves as the largest source of water. For the utility Denver Water, snowpack usually contains significantly more water than its largest surface reservoir, said Taylor Winchell, the agency’s climate adaptation program lead.
Denver Water has enough supply to handle a low-water year, but the snowpack conditions are creating “very high levels of concern,” Mr. Winchell said. The Denver Water Board is poised to officially declare Stage One drought restrictions, asking residents to significantly reduce their outdoor watering. If the snow drought were to repeat for multiple years, the problem could compound and worsen, he said.
The snow drought occurs at a critical time for the larger Colorado River Basin. An agreement among the basin’s seven states over how to divide its water expired at the end of last year, and negotiations to develop a new water plan fell apart last month. (The states are also obligated to share a small portion of the water with Mexico.)
The snow drought is complicating that work. Snowpack from the river’s Upper Basin, across mountains of Colorado, Utah, New Mexico and Wyoming, accounts for a majority of the river’s natural flow each year. Declining spring precipitation and rising temperatures have caused the Colorado’s flow to decrease by nearly 20 percent over the past quarter century.
Recent forecasts estimated that inflows to Lake Powell, a key reservoir that straddles the Utah-Arizona border, will be the third-smallest on record. The lake’s surface could drop to a critical level for hydroelectric power production by the end of this year, affecting a power grid that serves seven states.
Officials at the Bureau of Reclamation, the federal agency that oversees the Colorado River and its reservoirs, declined to be interviewed but said in a statement they were monitoring hydrologic conditions to guide decisions about how to manage the Colorado River system.
Mr. Fleck said a crisis without precedent could be brewing. While a drought that hit the basin in 2002 was worse, it was relatively more manageable than what the West now faces: “We’re having one of the worst years in many decades, but with no cushion of reservoir storage to fall back on to bail us out.”
Science
New report on L.A. post-fire beach contamination finds something unexpected: good news
Researchers investigating the long-term effects of the 2025 firestorms on L.A.’s beaches have found that rarest of things: good news.
In the year following the Palisades and Eaton fires, levels of harmful metals like lead in coastal sand and seawater have remained far below California’s limits for safe drinking water and the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency’s safety thresholds for aquatic life.
“We’re not seeing any evidence for harm in the ecosystem or harm for human health,” said Noelle Held, a University of Southern California marine biogeochemist and principal investigator for the CLEAN Waters project, which is measuring post-fire water quality.
The Palisades and Eaton fires burned more than 40,000 acres and destroyed at least 12,000 buildings, blanketing the ocean in ash for up to 100 miles offshore. Heavy rains a few weeks later washed the charred remnants of plastics, batteries, cars, chemicals and other potentially toxic material into the sea and up onto beaches via the region’s massive network of storm drains and concrete-lined rivers.
Initial testing by the nonprofit environmental group Heal the Bay in the weeks after the fires documented a spike in lead, mercury and other heavy metals in coastal waters. Concentrations of beryllium, copper, chromium, nickel and lead in particular were significantly above established safety thresholds for marine life, prompting fears for the long-term health of fish, marine mammals and the marine food chain.
For their most recent study, Held’s team analyzed seawater samples collected along multiple locations on five different dates between Feb. 10 and Oct. 17 in 2025, along with sand collected in August.
Seawater lead concentrations were highest in the month after the fire and in October, when the season’s first major rain had just washed months’ worth of urban pollution into the ocean.
Even at their peak, lead levels barely surpassed 1 microgram per liter — well below the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency’s aquatic life safety threshold of 8.1 micrograms per liter.
While levels of iron, manganese and cobalt were higher in sampling locations near the Palisades burn scar than they were in other areas, even there they remain well below concentrations that could pose harm to human or marine life.
For beach sand collected in August, lead levels never topped 14 parts per million at any location, significantly below both the current California residential soil standard of 80 parts per million and the stricter 55 parts per million standard proposed by environmental health researchers.
“This isn’t something we would flag if we were testing your soil in your yard,” Held said.
The recent findings are consistent with water quality tests the State Water Resources Control Board conducted earlier in 2025. A board spokesperson said those found both higher relative concentrations of metals closest to the burn scars and no overall evidence that post-fire pollution poses an ongoing threat to human health.
Yet the need for continued testing remains. Officials struggled to answer questions about post-fire beach safety in part because of a lack of historical data on pollution levels, a pitfall researchers would like to forestall before another disaster arrives.
Future rainstorms could also continue to wash metals into Will Rogers Beach and the Rustic Creek outfall, both of which are near the Palisades burn scar, CLEAN Waters warned.
“Post-fire impacts can change over time, depending on rainfalls, runoffs and sediment movements,” said Eugenia Ermacora, manager of the nonprofit Surfrider Foundation’s L.A. chapter, which has partnered with Held’s team to collect samples. “It’s not just about the fires, but it’s about urbanization and how much our city needs to continue the work of doing testing in the water.”
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