The energy crisis: ground zero

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STOCKTON, Calif.--It's the time everyone here has been dreading: the hot time, the dark time - summertime in California.

This is ground zero in the West Coast energy crunch. Washington's concerns over salmon and increased electric rates - still among the cheapest in the country - seem pale by comparison to people worried about sewage backing up into streets when pumps won't run.

But California's problems hit home in Washington.

When California botched its experiment in electricity deregulation, Northwest ratepayers also felt the effects of the high wholesale power prices. Seattle City Light borrowed $250 million to pay its debt for power purchases and has increased residential rates 37 percent since January to help pay it off.

The Bonneville Power Administration - which supplies about 46 percent of the region's power and is also planning a rate increase in the fall - is still owed about $90 million for power it sold to California utilities last winter.

And when California temperatures soar and power demand jumps by as much as 40 percent in summer, it's typical for the Northwest to send as much as 1,000 megawatts of power southward every hour. That's nearly enough to light Seattle at any given time.

BPA also is selling about 725 megawatts of power to California, even in this time of shortage, under long-term contracts.

With the Northwest facing the second-driest year in its history, using water to generate power to send south this summer could also hurt salmon, which need enough water to aid their migration to the sea.

But to some living at ground zero, fish seem an easy trade for power.

"I'm not too much on the salmon," said Carl Swanson, an $8-an-hour security guard in Stockton, a town of about 250,000 on the San Joaquin River, 45 miles south of Sacramento.

Swanson is facing up to an 80 percent increase retroactive to March in his power rate, already about double what the average Seattle City Light ratepayer is charged.

"If they could give us some power to help people out I'd say go with it," he said of the Northwest. "It's getting ready to get hot. I believe human beings have to come first; the Lord put salmon here to eat. If you are a human, you have to feel for the next person."

California, hit six times since January by rolling blackouts, has become a place where pets and people are panting at the veterinary clinic and the vet worries about losing power during surgery; where retirees on fixed incomes don't dare turn on the oven.

Where the director of the municipal waste-water plant fears sewage backing up in the streets when the pumps stop running.

Where workers at the city's port are scaring the crickets out of moribund World War II-era generators to keep its cargo cranes working.

Where no one knows quite how all this happened, but where they are sure of one thing: Summer is about to roast some 32 million souls at the mercy of utilities that couldn't even keep the lights on in the lower-demand seasons of winter and spring.

Long, hot summer ahead

Hector Dominguez's restaurant, with its dozen tables and scuffed vinyl banquettes, is dim and stuffy. Half the lights are out and the thermostat is set at 80. Dominguez has unplugged the icemaker. He buys cubes these days to save on his power bill.

His is a typical small business in Stockton. He has been paying $350 more a month for power this year than last, and that was before rates went up. He's wondering if the restaurant, in the family 17 years, can stay in business.

Dominguez is the little guy: too small to be notified by the utilities when the power is about to go out, and operating on margins too thin to absorb the loss from a blackout. Like many, he's aghast to find himself so vulnerable.

"At least in Mexico you kind of expect this. One day you have power, one day you don't. But not here. I expect them to be able to keep the electricity on."

Capt. Allen Anton, assistant director of Stockton's emergency services, pulls a thick notebook off his shelf, the city's emergency plan. But it's not much use in a rolling blackout. Like everywhere else in the state, city and county managers are outgunned by uncertainty.

Blackouts are triggered when operators of California's power grid see reserves dip below 1-1/2 percent of total statewide supply.

When the power goes out, water pressure in the city's system can drop by half, depending on how long the power stays off and how much water residents use. "From a fire standpoint, your response is nil," Anton said.

City police are outnumbered by the number of signaled intersections, and officials think staffing some and not others could be a liability problem. Motorists go it alone when the traffic lights blink out.

The power company, Pacific Gas & Electric, has promised a 15-minute warning before shutting off the electricity. It doesn't always happen.

"We get very little warning," said Ronald Baldwin, director of emergency operations for San Joaquin County.

Baldwin doesn't fear brief rolling outages. He figures any community can handle those. But an extended breakdown of the power grid in 105-degree summer temperatures isn't something he rules out, or something he can really plan for.

Just staying informed is a challenge. Some California legislators are proposing an electrical-supply forecast on the radio along with the weather and pollen count.

Officials say they have been told to expect outages as short as 90 minutes and as long as six hours. They're bracing for a statewide total of anywhere from 300 hours to more than 1,000 hours of blackouts this summer, depending on whether they listen to utility officials, independent watchdogs or legislative analysts.

Morris Allen, director of the city's water and waste-water-treatment services, faces the summer armed with nothing more than an 800 number to reach an electric-company recording if the power goes out.

But he doesn't think California should rely on Washington's power to ease the crisis this summer.

"Why should people in the Northwest pay for the fact that we haven't planned well for our growth here?" Allen said.

"If it were a natural disaster, that would be one thing. But it isn't."

At Sumiden Wire Products the power will stay on, because the company is on the same circuit as a hospital, one of the facilities exempt from blackouts in California.

But while the power is reliable, the company can't afford it.

One of the largest power users in San Joaquin County, the company has turned its shifts upside down to avoid costly peak power times. Workers now run the plant on weekends, at night, and in the morning. The plant shuts down at midday.

CEO Bob Olson's contract won't be renewed come July. After 22 years at the plant, he's philosophical about the need to cut costs. Last year the plant just broke even; this year it will lose millions. Energy costs are the nail in a coffin of overseas competition.

Dairy owners Mario and Ann Silva had just finished milking 750 cows when the power went out last month.

"We have a generator but it blew up on us," Mario Silva said. When the milk truck came, they couldn't pump their milk into it.

Their generator is being fixed, so a loaner is parked at the ready. Suddenly, in a state known for high-tech, a diesel generator is a necessity.

Asked whether the Northwest should send power to California, Ann Silva doesn't hesitate. "Oregon and Washington, screw the fish. We can't conserve our way out of this. If that is the plan, we are dead ducks. We have to generate more power."

For some, the question of survival is visceral. At Sheba's Liquors and Groceries, an unsteady parade of folks comes in for the bottles they'll sip from brown paper sacks as owner Nageb Algazali considers his summer ahead.

When the power goes out, Algazali worries not about his ice cream melting - he's worried about getting robbed. "How will you protect yourself? The alarm will not go off."

Lois Bond, 58, has stopped baking. She's stopped using the air conditioner that used to run from May until October. Now it's on 10 minutes in the morning and 10 minutes at night.

She helps wrap her housemate with freezer packs to combat the heat.

Bond unplugs every appliance in the house before she goes to work. She's replaced her electric clocks with battery operated ones; put compact fluorescent light bulbs in every fixture they fit, and cleaned out and unplugged the freezer in the garage.

Across town, Victoria Garcia and her husband, José, loaded up their trunk with sacks of groceries from the Greater Stockton Emergency Food Bank. It is assistance that helps feed their family of seven on José's $14-an-hour welding job.

A charity picked up $435 of the $1,000 they owed to the power company, but they still face monthly bills of $235 to whittle down the back payment, on top of current charges.

Food-bank staff member Michael Mueller said three out of four people he interviews in line for eligibility these days need help in part because of their power bills.

For the Garcias, blackouts and cutting back power use are frightening. Their 2-year-old son has asthma and requires treatments on an electrically powered nebulizer. His attacks are more frequent in hot weather.

"I must give him treatments twice or four times a day, and with rolling blackouts, what if he has an attack? What am I supposed to do then?" Victoria Garcia said.

"I'm a mom, I have to think of everything. And with five kids it's hard not to use power."

She is looking for help anywhere she can find it to get through this summer, including Northwest reservoirs.

"People," she says, "are more important than fish."

Lynda V. Mapes can be reached at 206-464-2736 or lmapes@seattletimes.com.