Abject terror gripped me that Tuesday morning, as I awakened to a horrific sound of wall vibrating and dishes crashing. It was unlike anything I’d ever heard, but I knew instantly it was an earthquake. It had to be. Nothing else could possibly make the house shake that hard.
For me, this occurred within the context of ongoing predictions of California breaking away and sliding into the ocean. As a very young teen at the time, I didn’t place much credence in such things, but for a few seconds that morning, I feared drowning in the ocean as much as the house collapsing on me.
When the rumbling ended, I joined my family in our backyard. We lived in Canoga Park, just north of Pierce College. I stared into our swimming pool, a roughly rectangular bowl with the deep end to the north. In the shallow end, the pool steps were just in front of my parents’ bedroom. The water level had dropped more than 3 feet. Looking up to the roof, there was a clearly visible water line near the peak. A 15-foot tidal wave had been launched from our pool, crashing on the roof and flooding my parents’ room.
It was at this point that I realized I was wearing only underwear and a T-shirt, yet I was comfortably warm, a strange sensation for a February morning. I reached down and touched the concrete deck. It was warm. The energy from the quake had noticeably raised the ground temperature.
We then surveyed the house and yard. Fortunately, other than broken dishes and emptied bookshelves, we were completely unscathed.
When I reflect back on that unforgettable morning, I recall most vividly the sound, the fear and the amazing pool tidal wave.