Infusing Reality in Fiction- The Northridge Quake of 1994
Broken Chain Photography: Tino Duvick
January 17th, 1994- If you lived in Southern California on that fateful day, then you know. For those that didn’t personally experience it, here’s the ‘real deal’ walk down memory lane. I lived in Canoga Park, a few miles from the epicenter of the Northridge earthquake.
At 4:31 am, the ground began bucking. This wasn’t my first earthquake, and wouldn’t be my last, but this beast was different. Some earthquakes roll, others vibrate. This one, though… this monster bucked like a bronco in a full steam fit. The ground heaved, slammed, and bounced.
I was in tenth grade, enjoying what I anticipated would be a long sleep because it was Martin Luther King Day that we had off from school. The plan was to sleep in and lounge about all day. Instead, I startled awake, only to realize that my stepfather was right. He harped on me regularly to keep my room clean, with a clear path to the door in case of an earthquake. My stepfather was a long time Los Angeles resident and knew from experience. I learned the hard way as my bed violently bounced and slammed, traveling haphazardly across the messy room with every fresh jarring shake. I managed to get out of bed. I was screaming, but nothing could be heard over the sound that the earthquake made. It roared like a freight train in an echo chamber. I’d never heard anything like it before, and I haven’t heard anything that even closely resembled it since. I’ll never forget that sound.
I barely made it across the room to the door. Between hazards falling from my shelves, stuff on my floor, and the pitching ground, I travelled precariously. I managed to get my bedroom door open, only to find my parents just making it into the hall with our golden retriever. We braced in doorways, disheveled. The earthquake felt like it had gone on forever, but it wasn’t done yet. My stepfather yelled over the protesting earth, “Hang on! This thing is a monster!” At a magnitude of 6.7, it certainly was. Scientists say the initial quake lasted eight seconds. Perhaps that was a fact where the seismograph databases were, but there’s no way it was eight seconds at my house. News reports characterize it as longer, and document that it took a brief break for a moment before kicking up again. I distinctly remember that break occurring as I got to my door, hence why I was able to wrench it open in the brief stillness.
Shake Map 1994: Property of United States National Geological Survey
Anyhow, it finally stopped, and we were relieved that our house was standing, but glass was shattered everywhere. Decorations, dishes, picture frames, all broken. We ignored the mess, getting on shoes so we didn’t cut our feet. There were bigger fish to fry and we had lots of time to clean up the mess later. We had gas lines, water lines, and a structural look-over to conduct. We quickly discovered that we weren’t on our own. A neighbor, who we didn’t know well, came by with a huge plumbing wrench and got our gas and water shutoff, like he did for every house in the neighborhood. People really came together during this catastrophe. One of my favorite neighbors, a biker who inspired the HHC character ‘Big Joe,’ pounded on the windows of elderly neighbors. Several were trapped under toppled furniture and debris. That incredible man broke in through windows to save people. The sense of community bonded everyone in the neighborhood. No longer feared for his grizzly biker appearance, he quickly became a favorite.
With the water and gas shut off, we went into the backyard and discovered that our pool was missing half its water. That explained some of the noise during the earthquake. Water sloshed from the pool and repeatedly slammed into the back of the house with each new jolt. What was left in that pool was a lifesaver during the long aftermath that followed. We carried in buckets to flush toilets while the water was shut off. All the windows held, and the chimney made it through. Our brick house took the damage like a champ. It survived the big earthquake of 1971, but this earthquake had it beat. Turns out that there was a fault line that was previously unknown. It was titled the Northridge Blind Thrust Fault. Its arrival on the scene was certainly memorable. The Blind Thrust Fault knew how to make an entrance.
Knowing that we were safe, and the house made it, we headed out the front door. Neighbors were convening on the street. We lived on the corner, and it’s the only time I recall that our closest neighborhood friends all stood in the middle of the four-way intersection together with no concern for cars that might run us over. It was early enough in the morning that there weren’t many driving through our neighborhood. Inexperienced with earthquakes of this magnitude, I naively stood there thinking the worst was over. That quickly proved wrong as a massive aftershock hit. It didn’t bounce this time. As the sun came up, we watched from our ‘middle of the road’ vantage as the asphalt turned into what seemed like liquid in the distance. The aftershock rolled in waves through our neighborhood, and we witnessed the rise and fall of cars, trees, and houses as wave after wave of powerful energy coursed through the ground. Car alarms resumed their squawk, adding to the cacophony.
The ground settled, and my stepfather warned that we were in for a long road. Electricity was out, water was off, and aftershocks were guaranteed for weeks. Some would be almost as powerful as the initial quake but died down with time. We’d discover later how severe the situation was. While we lived through the experience in real time, we were largely cut off from the news, beyond a battery powered radio that we had. The rest of the world watched as the news media rolled out coverage. I admit that the media can tend toward dramatics, but there was enough actual catastrophe that they didn’t have to search hard for exciting coverage. Bridges, buildings, freeways, and structures collapsed all around the area. Search and Rescue crews worked frantically to save trapped people. Structural fires, gas line breaks, and water issues added to the aftermath. Luckily, we were stocked with enough supplies to make it through while the city regrouped. Looters soon exacerbated the chaos as residents of damaged homes left to find safe shelter. That prompted a city-wide curfew. Helicopters flew overhead nightly, searching for looters. The curfew came with a direct order to stay inside our homes after dark. Not even our backyards were fair game.
Oddly enough, my house was the only one in the neighborhood that resumed landline phone communication after a few days. When the phone came back, we became a hub for the neighborhood who needed to get word out that they were okay. In the few days before that phone line came to life, my biological father was glued to the news. A survivalist by hobby and instinct, he prepped a military pack with a first aid kit, water, food rations, and anything he could think of that we may need while he rescued us from what he feared was certain doom. That incredible man was masterminding a plan to get from Texas to California. Planes weren’t flying in, but that wasn’t going to stop him. Just as he was about to leave, determined to get to me by car, train, foot, or parachute, we got back phone service. He was monumentally relieved to hear that we were okay.
We walked our neighborhood during the day and the damage was fascinating in a macabre way. There were houses that had only minor damage, but you could see where the shaking was the worst. Those houses collapsed. I’m no scientist, but rumor was that the damage was on faults that ran directly under those destroyed homes. An aerial shot would have revealed several diagonal swaths of destruction through the neighborhood where you could track those supposed faults.
The aftershocks lasted for weeks. School was cancelled for just as long due to lack of utilities, inspections, building repairs, and roadway closures. While teens dream of a few weeks off from school, it wasn’t the fantasy we hoped for. Lack of supplies and utilities, dark evenings, fear of break-ins, and rattled nerves prevailed. I couldn’t complain though. Quite a few homes weren’t safe, and many neighborhoods were evacuated. Tent cities popped up in public parks as shelters were quickly overwhelmed.
We made it through unscathed, save for replaceable items, but many couldn’t say the same. Fifty-seven people lost their lives to the Northridge earthquake, and more than nine thousand were injured. The devastation and chaos would have been far more severe if that quake hadn’t hit when it did. Because of the early hour, and national holiday, many were still at home.
It took quite some time to repair the infrastructure. For years, people would stop at red lights before they pulled under overpasses because we were warned of weakened concrete. To this day, thirty-one years later, I nervously sit under overpasses at a red light. It’s irrational given that I don’t even live in Southern California anymore, but habits stick with us.
For my family, the experience would have been far different if I had been at Hollywood High for a school day when the earthquake hit. It took a lengthy drive in traffic on the 101 freeway to get there from our San Fernando Valley home. The same can be said for many Southern California residents, where a destination twenty miles down the road can take hours in normal gridlock traffic. The earthquake created hazards, delays, and many more would have died if the timing were different. With that said, the loss of fifty-seven lives is heart wrenching and my heart goes out to those families.
Having experienced the Northridge earthquake during my teen years, I felt compelled to infuse the Hollywood High Chronicles with a shaker in book five: Aftershock. I could have used the actual timing, placing the Misfits of the HHC in their respective dwellings. As a fictional writer, I chose to experience the quake again through the lens of what could have happened if we, the real-life Misfits, were at school. It certainly made for an exciting backdrop for the fictional drama, but I thank all my lucky stars that reality gave us grace with the timing of the real Northridge earthquake.
This is the only photo that I have of us hunkered down during the earthquake aftermath. This picture was taken by Carol, my mother, a few days into our experience. Naturally, my stepfather, Rich, was relaxed about it all because that was his way. Meanwhile, I nervously rubbed a tired face. You can see Nelly’s favorite dog toys in the doorway next to me, and on the blanket. She gathered them when we were grabbing necessities. Nelly was incredibly bright and understood what we were frantically doing. As was her way, she followed our example. It was a humorous tension breaker as she rushed repeatedly into the hall, thumping down a toy, before racing to grab another from the den.
We were living in the hallway due to the frequency of the aftershocks. The hallway was the safest place in our house because we could close the doors, blocking flying glass if untempered windows broke. It was also far enough from the brick chimney stack that we were unlikely to get hit if it broke loose and crashed through the roof and ceiling.
Notice the jackets and blankets. It was January, and we had no electricity or heat due to the grid damage. It got cold at night, but Southern California temperature drops are less extreme than other areas of the country. Rich had his trusty flashlight next to him. Candles weren’t an option due to fire danger as aftershocks hit. Once it got dark, we sat in the hallway with our supplies that were around the corner, out of the picture view.
We did a lot of talking and storytelling during those long, cold, dark nights. I was an avid reader, but we didn’t waste battery power for a flashlight to read all night. We didn’t know how long this would go on, and stores quickly emptied of supplies, like water and batteries. We rationed what we had very carefully.
Additional Article Links:
Northridge Earthquake: 1994 quake still fresh in Los Angeles minds after 20 years – Daily News
Los Angeles Daily News
Youtube:
First Reports of the Northridge Earthquake | From the Archives | NBCLA