Tsunami

My NOAA alarm went off at 11:27 pm. I ran down stairs and listened to it's announcement. An earthquake hit Japan and a tsunami is coming our way. I quickly turn on the t.v. and watch, over and over again how that massive wave wiped out Sendai. We have seven hours to evacuate before it hits our beaches.

I've heard about this. I knew about this. Our small coastal town practiced this routine. I tear myself away from the horrific repetitive scene glowing in my entertainment room and start the laundry. There's no going back to sleep so I might as well have clean underwear for when it's time to go. Who knows when I'll be able to do laundry again. Seriously. That was my first thought. And I did it. Then I cleaned up the kitchen. There were just a few dishes to be washed, but I didn't want them in the sink. I wanted them clean and put in their proper places. Perhaps it was the video of houses floating down streets, one with a car resting in it's front room window, that instilled this desire for neatness. There was really no rational excuse for my behavior, it was just nervous energy. Nonetheless, when everything was tidy and the clothes in the machine, I was able to get the plastic tub out and fill it with canned tuna, powder milk, and coffee. And water and dog food. And batteries. And yarn.
Sunny, who recently moved from a tsunami save zone to join me in my beach house, shakes her head and attempts to go back to bed. We both now know how we each respond to intense situations.

I move all the vehicles, there are four between us (damn Americans), to free up the garage and I back the Westfalia van out. Our emergency home is semi ready for such an event but I add a few reinforcements, including my collection of knitting needles, as the news team is not certain whether the wave will diminish in size or grow in it's travels to our coastline.
At 5 am Sunny, the dogs, and I leave our beach home and drive five miles to my aunt and uncle's home that is out of the tsunami zone, kind of. It's out of a little tsunami zone, but not a big tsunami zone.
Because we've all been up all night, we are momentarily uncertain whether to drink wine or coffee. I join my aunty and her friend Carole in a glass of Cabernet. My nerves could use a little relaxing. Then we sit back in front of the television and wait to hear the outcome of Hawaii's hit while keeping an eye on the water line on the pier in the bay below their home.

That night turned out to be a practice run. We did pretty good. But we also had seven long hours to prepare. Word is, we're next. We're due. Next time we may only have minutes. I leave the van out in the driveway, loaded and ready to do. If we were to loose electricity I wouldn't be able to get it out of the garage. There is a prediction from really smart guys in Russia and Canada that the west coast is going to take a hit during the super moon. My truck sits at home while I drive my home on wheels everywhere, just in case. Sunny and I discuss evacuation routes and meeting places if we are separated when It hits.
My boss commented on my using the van and I explained my prepared readiness in case of an earthquake or tsunami. He says, "Where you going to go?" I just stare at him. He's right. There is no place to go. Both coastal directions, north and south, that lead to a highway exit over the mountain range first take you right along the ocean's edge. Most likely those narrow windy roads will not survive a quake. He tells me the only ones to survive here are those that grab a backpack and run up the mountain behind us.
As soon as I get home I'm upstairs in the attic digging out my bigger backpack and loading it up. It goes where I go now. I make sure Sunny has one too and that she takes hers with her everywhere she goes. The van is still ready, just in case we have time for a proper evacuation, but if time is limited, I'll grab the pack and hope I have good shoes on.

This is a new experience for me. Ketchikan is in a protected area. In the 38 years I lived there there was never a fear of natural disaster. No tornadoes. No forest fires. No earthquakes, except for that biggie in Anchorage in 1964 but we're pretty sheltered from tsunamis by all the surrounding islands.
Now I live with that nagging feeling of "If it hit right now, would you be ready?" I always know where my pack is. I've retrained myself to put my cell phone, car keys, and glasses in the same place every night. I've located the safest triangles in my home to take cover in. Then I sleep. In a warm bed. Listening to the cold rain outside and hoping it doesn't happen tonight because I don't want to be wet and cold. Then I think of the Japanese. The lucky ones are curled up on concrete floors of a school gym. I try to sleep.
In the mean time, life goes on. I finish knitting the sweater in my chair. Sunny goes back to unpacking her boxes. I call my boys to check on their well being. Japan is looking for bodies. We make grocery lists. Japan is thirsty. We talk about weekend plans. Japan is trying to calm the nukes. We keep our gas tanks full. Sendai has no roads. Sendai has no Sendai. Rockaway Beach would be gone too. Yet, we stay. We love it here. It's beauty. The beautiful ocean that gives us life could take our lives at any time. It causes me to breathe deep and notice my surroundings, thankful for every day. And my backpack.