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Fact-checking a Trump-inspired fear.
As someone on the “will this thing kill me” beat, I was paying close attention when the former president of the United States recently expressed concern about electric-powered boats — apparently, the new aquatic twist on his electric car rant. “Let’s say your boat goes down and I’m sitting on top of this big powerful battery and the boat’s going down,” Donald Trump mused to a group of supporters in the landlocked state of Iowa. “Do I get electrocuted?”
Trump then dramatically upped the stakes by imagining the sinking electric boat was also being circled by a shark. “So I have a choice of electrocution or shark,” he went on. “You know what I’m going to take? Electrocution. I will take electrocution every single time.”
I wanted to find out if it was actually possible for Trump to be electrocuted and/or eaten by a shark (you know, hypothetically). It was a question that inspired many related, obsessive searches: What about if you drive an electric vehicle into a lake — would that electrocute you? Are first responders afraid to help people in submerged EVs? Would they leave you inside to die?!
Like I said, I can be a little morbid.
Below, I attempt to sort electrocution fact from electrocution fiction, with a few detours thrown in.
People have been using electricity to power their boats for over 120 years. In fact, until the high-energy storage density of oil became obvious around the turn of the century, electric boats actually enjoyed a bit of a heyday. (RIP to the electric canoe).
Moreover, if you’ve ever been on a marine vessel with any more sophistication than a rowboat, it probably had a battery and an electrical system on board, even if it wasn’t powered by an electric motor. Standard 12-volt marine batteries are used for everything from starting the main engine to running the lights, radio, or a trolling motor on board.
The modern iteration of the fully electrified boat movement is still in its relative infancy and faces some big challenges. But the short version is, we’ve been using electricity at sea for a long time and have gotten pretty good at not electrocuting ourselves. And the potential electrocution problems that do exist usually aren’t exclusive to high-voltage electric boats, but gas-powered ones as well.
First of all, battery packs on electric boats are designed to be watertight — duh, because they’re
on a boat. Believe it or not, electric boat makers have taken into account the fact that their products could, in a worst-case scenario, end up underwater. A spokesperson for Arc Boat Company, a flashy new player in the electric boat space, pointed me to their FAQ which explains that “our fault table — a list of possible points of failure and what to do about each one — is hundreds of lines long, meaning we’ve thought about, tested, and planned for every scenario you might encounter on and off the water.” (This seems like a job I could be good at.)
In fact, all the electric boat manufacturers I was in touch with said they meet a waterproofing standard that is either at, or just below, what is required for a submarine. The high-voltage batteries are additionally kept in “puncture-resistant shells,” so even if the boat somehow got completely mangled, the battery won’t just be openly exposed to the water.
Still, you definitely don’t want to sit on an exposed “big powerful battery,” as Trump suggests in his scenario, since you could theoretically interrupt the closed loop of a DC battery’s electrical circuit and get shocked. But just being on an electric boat that is sinking does not inherently expose you to electrocution danger.
Electric shock drowning is caused by faulty wiring at a dock or a marina leaking 120-volt alternating current into the water. That electricity can potentially kill a nearby swimmer on its own, or cause them to become incapacitated and drown.
This overwhelmingly happens in lakes and rivers, since human bodies are a better conductor of electricity than fresh water but not saltwater. “In saltwater, the human body only slows electricity down, so most of it will go around a swimmer on its way back to ground unless the swimmer grabs hold of something — like a propeller or a swim ladder — that’s electrified,” BoatUS, a marine insurance company and safety advocacy group, explains in its publication Seaworthy. “In fresh water, the current gets ‘stuck’ trying to return to its source and generates voltage gradients that will take a shortcut through the human body.”
While it’s possible that a poorly maintained electric boat charging station could cause this sort of leak, it’s not a danger exclusive to the electric boat world; gas-powered boats hooked to shore power kill people every year, as well. Regardless, this is why you should never, ever swim around boat docks, especially at lakes.
If you are worried about sea life getting electrocuted by a high-voltage shipwreck, don’t be. When a battery is underwater, its current will flow into the water between its two terminals. This is bad for the battery (it’ll cause it to rapidly discharge) but you don’t have to worry about the entire ocean or lake getting filled with charge and electrocuting everything in it; high-voltage batteries are powerful but not nearly that powerful. If a shark is in the immediate vicinity of the battery — like, trying to eat it — it might potentially get hurt, but this whole premise is also starting to get absurd with this many “what ifs” piled on top of each other. (Really, the environmental hazard of a leaking lithium battery on the seafloor is probably the greater cause for concern.)
You’ll have bigger problems than electrocution!
Like electric boats, EV batteries are obsessively insulated and the cars are designed with a number of fail-safes to isolate the battery in the case of an accident. Again, the people who thought up these things have already considered the worst-case scenarios. (Plus, getting sued for repeatedly electrocuting anyone who drives through a puddle is not good business).
What’s important to understand is that unlike the 12-volt batteries used in gas-powered cars, which are harmlessly grounded to the car’s large chassis, high-voltage systems in EVs use a floating ground, which helps prevent you from being electrocuted if the car becomes submerged. “It’s not grounded chassis — there is no return path for a vehicle that has been submerged to return that charge,” Joe McLaine, a safety engineer with General Motors, told me. “And if there [are] any faults or anomalies with the high voltage system, and it’s operating in normal functioning ranges, it’s going to shut off anyway.”
Yes — and it’s also true of driving in the rain, or washing your car, or charging in a downpour.
Trying to drive an EV through deep water is not a great idea for a number of very good reasons, but fear of electrocution isn’t one of them. The most likely scenario is that the water will cause any less-well-insulated electronic components to short out, causing the car to die — which is what happened when Motor Mythbusters tried to drive a Nissan Leaf through a water-filled trench.
Of course, gas-powered cars don’t love driving in floods, either, and there is some reason to believe that EVs might actually do better in flood conditions than their counterparts.
Back in 2016, Elon Musk tweeted that the “Model S floats well enough to turn it into a boat for short periods of time.” Just searching the words “EV” or “Tesla” and “flood” or “boat mode” will lead you to tons of videos of EVs plowing through deep bodies of water.
Don’t … do this. Most flood-related deaths occur in cars, and this fact doesn’t change just because your vehicle has a plug. Additionally, just because an EV drove through a flood successfully in a short video doesn’t mean there was no lasting damage from the water (which, it should be added, isn’t covered under warranty).
Florida’s State Fire Marshal’s Office reported there were at least 21 EV battery fires in the aftermath of Hurricane Ian in 2022. This is specifically a phenomenon caused by saltwater storm surge: When the car eventually dries out, the salt residue can remain behind on the battery, creating conductive “bridges” that lead to short circuits and fires.
This is still fairly rare: “The odds that your electric battery pack is on fire in Florida are about the same odds of you getting struck by lightning,” Joe Britton, the executive director of the Zero Emission Transportation Association, told Utility Drive. To be safe, FEMA recommends that any EVs flooded by saltwater be moved at least 50 feet away from any structures, other vehicles, or combustibles. And if you are expecting storm surge, move your EV preemptively to higher ground.
Tesla echoes this advice: “As with any electric vehicle, if your Tesla has been exposed to flooding, extreme weather events, or has otherwise been submerged in water (especially in salt water), treat it as if it’s been in an accident and contact your insurance company for support,” the company writes in its user manual.
“That is not true,” McLaine, the safety engineer with General Motors, told me. McLaine is responsible for GM’s Battery Electric Vehicle First Responder Training program, which has educated over 5,000 first- and second-responders in 25 different locations across the U.S. and Canada, and is focused on dispelling some of the rumors and misinformation around electric cars.
In addition to trainings like GM’s, a growing familiarity with the thousands of EVs now on the road has also made first responders more confident when responding to bad accidents. Orange cables are used to easily identify high-voltage components, which are placed “in areas and locations in the vehicle in which first responders typically wouldn’t have access to anyway,” McLaine explained.
First responders are trained to disable the high-voltage systems in an EV just like they would snip the cut loops around a 12-volt battery in a gas-powered vehicle accident. Additionally, most manufacturers make it extremely easy to find individual emergency response guides for their vehicles online, and there are various hotlines available for first- and second-responders when EV-related questions arise.
What First Responders Do in an EV Accidentwww.youtube.com
As for first responders handling cars that have been fully or partially submerged: Pretty much all of the emergency response documents I could find stated some version of “A submerged electric vehicle does not have a high voltage potential on the metal vehicle body, and is safe to touch” (this one specifically comes from the papers for the RAV 4 EV). Though first responders need to be careful with cutting into crushed cars, there are no shocking surprises when it comes to simply handling a submerged EV.
Are you kidding me? Electrocution would at least be quick! Trump got that part right: In this round of “would you rather,” you should take electrocution every time.
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Paradise, California, is snatching up high-risk properties to create a defensive perimeter and prevent the town from burning again.
The 2018 Camp Fire was the deadliest wildfire in California’s history, wiping out 90% of the structures in the mountain town of Paradise and killing at least 85 people in a matter of hours. Investigations afterward found that Paradise’s town planners had ignored warnings of the fire risk to its residents and forgone common-sense preparations that would have saved lives. In the years since, the Camp Fire has consequently become a cautionary tale for similar communities in high-risk wildfire areas — places like Chinese Camp, a small historic landmark in the Sierra Nevada foothills that dramatically burned to the ground last week as part of the nearly 14,000-acre TCU September Lightning Complex.
More recently, Paradise has also become a model for how a town can rebuild wisely after a wildfire. At least some of that is due to the work of Dan Efseaff, the director of the Paradise Recreation and Park District, who has launched a program to identify and acquire some of the highest-risk, hardest-to-access properties in the Camp Fire burn scar. Though he has a limited total operating budget of around $5.5 million and relies heavily on the charity of local property owners (he’s currently in the process of applying for a $15 million grant with a $5 million match for the program) Efseaff has nevertheless managed to build the beginning of a defensible buffer of managed parkland around Paradise that could potentially buy the town time in the case of a future wildfire.
In order to better understand how communities can build back smarter after — or, ideally, before — a catastrophic fire, I spoke with Efseaff about his work in Paradise and how other communities might be able to replicate it. Our conversation has been lightly edited and condensed for clarity.
Do you live in Paradise? Were you there during the Camp Fire?
I actually live in Chico. We’ve lived here since the mid-‘90s, but I have a long connection to Paradise; I’ve worked for the district since 2017. I’m also a sea kayak instructor and during the Camp Fire, I was in South Carolina for a training. I was away from the phone until I got back at the end of the day and saw it blowing up with everything.
I have triplet daughters who were attending Butte College at the time, and they needed to be evacuated. There was a lot of uncertainty that day. But it gave me some perspective, because I couldn’t get back for two days. It gave me a chance to think, “Okay, what’s our response going to be?” Looking two days out, it was like: That would have been payroll, let’s get people together, and then let’s figure out what we’re going to do two weeks and two months from now.
It also got my mind thinking about what we would have done going backwards. If you’d had two weeks to prepare, you would have gotten your go-bag together, you’d have come up with your evacuation route — that type of thing. But when you run the movie backwards on what you would have done differently if you had two years or two decades, it would include prepping the landscape, making some safer community defensible space. That’s what got me started.
Was it your idea to buy up the high-risk properties in the burn scar?
I would say I adapted it. Everyone wants to say it was their idea, but I’ll tell you where it came from: Pre-fire, the thinking was that it would make sense for the town to have a perimeter trail from a recreation standpoint. But I was also trying to pitch it as a good idea from a fuel standpoint, so that if there was a wildfire, you could respond to it. Certainly, the idea took on a whole other dimension after the Camp Fire.
I’m a restoration ecologist, so I’ve done a lot of river floodplain work. There are a lot of analogies there. The trend has been to give nature a little bit more room: You’re not going to stop a flood, but you can minimize damage to human infrastructure. Putting levees too close to the river makes them more prone to failing and puts people at risk — but if you can set the levee back a little bit, it gives the flood waters room to go through. That’s why I thought we need a little bit of a buffer in Paradise and some protection around the community. We need a transition between an area that is going to burn, and that we can let burn, but not in a way that is catastrophic.
How hard has it been to find willing sellers? Do most people in the area want to rebuild — or need to because of their mortgages?
Ironically, the biggest challenge for us is finding adequate funding. A lot of the property we have so far has been donated to us. It’s probably upwards of — oh, let’s see, at least half a dozen properties have been donated, probably close to 200 acres at this point.
We are applying for some federal grants right now, and we’ll see how that goes. What’s evolved quite a bit on this in recent years, though, is that — because we’ve done some modeling — instead of thinking of the buffer as areas that are managed uniformly around the community, we’re much more strategic. These fire events are wind-driven, and there are only a couple of directions where the wind blows sufficiently long enough and powerful enough for the other conditions to fall into play. That’s not to say other events couldn’t happen, but we’re going after the most likely events that would cause catastrophic fires, and that would be from the Diablo winds, or north winds, that come through our area. That was what happened in the Camp Fire scenario, and another one our models caught what sure looked a lot like the [2024] Park Fire.
One thing that I want to make clear is that some people think, “Oh, this is a fire break. It’s devoid of vegetation.” No, what we’re talking about is a well-managed habitat. These are shaded fuel breaks. You maintain the big trees, you get rid of the ladder fuels, and you get rid of the dead wood that’s on the ground. We have good examples with our partners, like the Butte Fire Safe Council, on how this works, and it looks like it helped protect the community of Cohasset during the Park Fire. They did some work on some strips there, and the fire essentially dropped to the ground before it came to Paradise Lake. You didn’t have an aerial tanker dropping retardant, you didn’t have a $2-million-per-day fire crew out there doing work. It was modest work done early and in the right place that actually changed the behavior of the fire.
Tell me a little more about the modeling you’ve been doing.
We looked at fire pathways with a group called XyloPlan out of the Bay Area. The concept is that you simulate a series of ignitions with certain wind conditions, terrain, and vegetation. The model looked very much like a Camp Fire scenario; it followed the same pathway, going towards the community in a little gulch that channeled high winds. You need to interrupt that pathway — and that doesn’t necessarily mean creating an area devoid of vegetation, but if you have these areas where the fire behavior changes and drops down to the ground, then it slows the travel. I found this hard to believe, but in the modeling results, in a scenario like the Camp Fire, it could buy you up to eight hours. With modern California firefighting, you could empty out the community in a systematic way in that time. You could have a vigorous fire response. You could have aircraft potentially ready. It’s a game-changing situation, rather than the 30 minutes Paradise had when the Camp Fire started.
How does this work when you’re dealing with private property owners, though? How do you convince them to move or donate their land?
We’re a Park and Recreation District so we don’t have regulatory authority. We are just trying to run with a good idea with the properties that we have so far — those from willing donors mostly, but there have been a couple of sales. If we’re unable to get federal funding or state support, though, I ultimately think this idea will still have to be here — whether it’s five, 10, 15, or 50 years from now. We have to manage this area in a comprehensive way.
Private property rights are very important, and we don’t want to impinge on that. And yet, what a person does on their property has a huge impact on the 30,000 people who may be downwind of them. It’s an unusual situation: In a hurricane, if you have a hurricane-rated roof and your neighbor doesn’t, and theirs blows off, you feel sorry for your neighbor but it’s probably not going to harm your property much. In a wildfire, what your neighbor has done with the wood, or how they treat vegetation, has a significant impact on your home and whether your family is going to survive. It’s a fundamentally different kind of event than some of the other disasters we look at.
Do you have any advice for community leaders who might want to consider creating buffer zones or something similar to what you’re doing in Paradise?
Start today. You have to think about these things with some urgency, but they’re not something people think about until it happens. Paradise, for many decades, did not have a single escaped wildfire make it into the community. Then, overnight, the community is essentially wiped out. But in so many places, these events are foreseeable; we’re just not wired to think about them or prepare for them.
Buffers around communities make a lot of sense, even from a road network standpoint. Even from a trash pickup standpoint. You don’t think about this, but if your community is really strung out, making it a little more thoughtfully laid out also makes it more economically viable to provide services to people. Some things we look for now are long roads that don’t have any connections — that were one-way in and no way out. I don’t think [the traffic jams and deaths in] Paradise would have happened with what we know now, but I kind of think [authorities] did know better beforehand. It just wasn’t economically viable at the time; they didn’t think it was a big deal, but they built the roads anyway. We can be doing a lot of things smarter.
A war of attrition is now turning in opponents’ favor.
A solar developer’s defeat in Massachusetts last week reveals just how much stronger project opponents are on the battlefield after the de facto repeal of the Inflation Reduction Act.
Last week, solar developer PureSky pulled five projects under development around the western Massachusetts town of Shutesbury. PureSky’s facilities had been in the works for years and would together represent what the developer has claimed would be one of the state’s largest solar projects thus far. In a statement, the company laid blame on “broader policy and regulatory headwinds,” including the state’s existing renewables incentives not keeping pace with rising costs and “federal policy updates,” which PureSky said were “making it harder to finance projects like those proposed near Shutesbury.”
But tucked in its press release was an admission from the company’s vice president of development Derek Moretz: this was also about the town, which had enacted a bylaw significantly restricting solar development that the company was until recently fighting vigorously in court.
“There are very few areas in the Commonwealth that are feasible to reach its clean energy goals,” Moretz stated. “We respect the Town’s conservation go als, but it is clear that systemic reforms are needed for Massachusetts to source its own energy.”
This stems from a story that probably sounds familiar: after proposing the projects, PureSky began reckoning with a burgeoning opposition campaign centered around nature conservation. Led by a fresh opposition group, Smart Solar Shutesbury, activists successfully pushed the town to drastically curtail development in 2023, pointing to the amount of forest acreage that would potentially be cleared in order to construct the projects. The town had previously not permitted facilities larger than 15 acres, but the fresh change went further, essentially banning battery storage and solar projects in most areas.
When this first happened, the state Attorney General’s office actually had PureSky’s back, challenging the legality of the bylaw that would block construction. And PureSky filed a lawsuit that was, until recently, ongoing with no signs of stopping. But last week, shortly after the Treasury Department unveiled its rules for implementing Trump’s new tax and spending law, which basically repealed the Inflation Reduction Act, PureSky settled with the town and dropped the lawsuit – and the projects went away along with the court fight.
What does this tell us? Well, things out in the country must be getting quite bleak for solar developers in areas with strident and locked-in opposition that could be costly to fight. Where before project developers might have been able to stomach the struggle, money talks – and the dollars are starting to tell executives to lay down their arms.
The picture gets worse on the macro level: On Monday, the Solar Energy Industries Association released a report declaring that federal policy changes brought about by phasing out federal tax incentives would put the U.S. at risk of losing upwards of 55 gigawatts of solar project development by 2030, representing a loss of more than 20 percent of the project pipeline.
But the trade group said most of that total – 44 gigawatts – was linked specifically to the Trump administration’s decision to halt federal permitting for renewable energy facilities, a decision that may impact generation out west but has little-to-know bearing on most large solar projects because those are almost always on private land.
Heatmap Pro can tell us how much is at stake here. To give you a sense of perspective, across the U.S., over 81 gigawatts worth of renewable energy projects are being contested right now, with non-Western states – the Northeast, South and Midwest – making up almost 60% of that potential capacity.
If historical trends hold, you’d expect a staggering 49% of those projects to be canceled. That would be on top of the totals SEIA suggests could be at risk from new Trump permitting policies.
I suspect the rate of cancellations in the face of project opposition will increase. And if this policy landscape is helping activists kill projects in blue states in desperate need of power, like Massachusetts, then the future may be more difficult to swallow than we can imagine at the moment.
And more on the week’s most important conflicts around renewables.
1. Wells County, Indiana – One of the nation’s most at-risk solar projects may now be prompting a full on moratorium.
2. Clark County, Ohio – Another Ohio county has significantly restricted renewable energy development, this time with big political implications.
3. Daviess County, Kentucky – NextEra’s having some problems getting past this county’s setbacks.
4. Columbia County, Georgia – Sometimes the wealthy will just say no to a solar farm.
5. Ottawa County, Michigan – A proposed battery storage facility in the Mitten State looks like it is about to test the state’s new permitting primacy law.