For those who spend a few minutes reading my D Real Estate Daily postings, recall my last column posited the real reasons Californians are leaving the Golden State. In response, I got notes back asking what convinced me it was time to leave. If you’ll indulge me, I’ll spend the next 1,000 words or so explaining.
My decision had nothing to do with taxes, with the lack of quality public schools, the anti-business climate, traffic, gang violence, or wackos in Sacramento. My motivation was something altogether different.
It was January 1994. I was in graduate school at USC. My wife was nine months pregnant and our second son was due the end of the month. It was the MLK holiday weekend. I had an exam the next week and wanted to study. My wife, on the other hand, wanted to take the long weekend off and relax with her folks at the family condo in San Clemente, two hours south. Reluctantly, she agreed to go without me, taking our 4-year-old with her. Later, she told me as she got to the end of our block, a shoulder-angel popped up and scolded her for leaving. As she thought about turning around another shoulder-angel popped up and told her to go have fun. Fortunately, she listened to the latter.
Sunday morning, 4:31 a.m. I was awakened by the most surreal, most confounding, most violent thing I could imagine. The sound of my house breaking apart and collapsing around me was deafening. In my partially-awake and massively confused state it took me a moment to push aside the thought that somehow, against all odds, a giant of some kind had lifted my house from its foundation and was gleefully shaking it like a 2-year old with a snow-globe.
Most will go through life without ever knowing what it’s like to be an animal. That is, we humans mostly work from a place of reason, logic, and common sense. We think things through, whereas animals tend to work more from instinct. The most primal of all instincts? Fight or flight. On January 17, 1994, I was an animal. And given the veracity and conviction of my opponent, fight was not an option. So I ran.
Our bedroom was on the second floor, and along the staircase we had hung family portraits in glass-fronted frames. Of course, they had all fallen, the glass shattering on the wooden staircase. But with instinct in full command, I ran down that staircase barefooted. We’d recently installed a new deadbolt lock, the kind you need a key to open from both sides because there was a window next to the front door. That seemed like a great idea at the time, but at 4:32 a.m. in the middle of a massive earthquake, with no lights and my keys in a pile of rubble somewhere, I could not open that door no matter how hard I yanked on it. Right then, the first quake stopped. I put instinct on hold long enough to realize I was standing on the broken shards of an antique mirror we’d hung in the entryway. My feet felt on fire. I was bleeding badly.
Now what? I wanted out, but I needed to protect my feet. So I started back up the stairs, and only then, when I heard the crunch of glass underfoot did I realize the mistake I’d made. About that time, the first aftershock hit and instinct came roaring back. I raced upstairs, felt my way to the closet, found a tennis shoe for my left foot, and flip-flop for my right.
I knew the front door was out so I started into the living room. But furniture had been tossed everywhere and in the pitch black I couldn’t see a thing. I backed up and tried the kitchen.
The cupboards had wretched all our crystal, china and glassware onto the tile floor. But hey, at least I had my flip-flop to protect me! Almost 30 minutes after the initial quake, I found the door to the garage. Inside, I shoved aside the washer and dryer, grabbed the back door, and stepped into chaos.
The first thing that struck me was the sound of rushing water. Later I learned that up the street a water main had ruptured. Next I smelled natural gas. About that time I saw some neighbors. We huddled quickly, scrounged up some wrenches, and then went house to house turning off gas lines. Then suddenly, a massive explosion, angry flames instantly igniting palms trees on either side of the street and setting houses ablaze. Once again, instinct took charge. I helped a neighbor drag his car out of his garage. His family and I climbed inside and headed to my in-laws home around 4 miles away. We waited there until dawn then went back to survey the damage.
No one in those days had cell phones. But that afternoon a guy who lived up the street came by. He was a ham radio operator. He took down my name and I told him where my family was. Later, I learned someone from Fresno called the condo and told them I was alive. I still have no idea how that all happened. But I am grateful it did.
Over the next months, many of my neighbors let their homes go into foreclosure. But we worked with FEMA and the SBA and got an emergency relief loan—a loan we are still paying off more than 20 years later.
When I see the SBA bill, I remember January 17, 1994. But not just the horror. I remember strangers who came by to hand me bottles of water, sandwiches, and blankets. I remember talking with the National Guardsmen who were there to keep looters from taking advantage of us. I remember the crews working in the streets to get us electricity (10 days), water (three weeks) and gas (almost six weeks). And I remember the kindness of my boss, who offered to move me to Dallas so I could start life all over again.
So that’s why we’re here. Do I miss California? At times. At least certain things about it. Would I go back?
Never.
