Oct. 17, 1989 —
I had just felt what it was like to be clothes tumble-drying in the old Kenmore. My little white Toyota gyrated while I rationalized away a 6.9 earthquake. “It’s a flat tire! It’s two flat tires! How many goddamn flat tires could it be? Maybe I need a tune-up?” My favorite old-time rock radio station just went dead. A song I knew all the words to was no longer to be heard in my bucking Camry.
My first instinct was to put her in reverse and back up at least until North Beach. But the only direction open to me was forward to the East Bay. I was really quite impressed that the bridge was still standing. It had always seemed to me like the mega-version of the erector set my cousin Herb gave me for my seventh birthday. I stepped heavily on the gas pedal to get the journey over and done with as fast as possible. Perhaps this big erector set was still thinking it over? I must get home to the East Bay to watch the World Series with the guys. Isn’t that why I left the office early? Why would I be on this toy at 5:04 p.m., if it weren’t for the Series?
Then the traffic, everyone with a heavy foot on the gas pedal, came to a jolting halt. The air had waves of stinking fuel rising from the stopped cars, motors still running. Many people, led by a man driving a motorcycle, came running towards us waving their arms and screaming, “Run, the bridge is collapsing!” The majority of people I saw sitting in their cars observing this remained sitting in their cars in disbelief or fear, whatever. Perhaps if they disbelieved hard enough, it would go away. They’d be on their way home to catch the Series. I was more realistic, being more experienced, having a cousin, Herb, who once gave me an erector set a long time ago.
I blasted out of my car and then blasted right back in. I forgot to turn the motor off and keep the key. I could allow myself that much presence of mind, just in case disaster was not as imminent as I feared. I also grabbed my purse, containing a 10-pound book on the Philippines, given to me by my friend Sarah with the blond hair, from Berkeley.
I began to run. I breathed hot auto exhaust as I weaved in and out of the abandoned cars as others now came out of their stupor and decided to move it. Yes, this was, indeed, reality. We were awake. This was really happening. Since it had been some time since my erector-set days, I ran a lot more slowly than I would have liked. I made a lot of movements with my arms, but my feet didn’t do too many wonderful things. I removed my high-heeled shoes and picked up some speed running right through the pantyhose “hatched” early this morning. Remarkably, the bridge was clean. No pebbles or bits were on it to lodge in my bare feet. I then ran the fastest half-mile or so of my life with or without a 10-pound book on the Philippines dangling in my bag.
Knowing that my husband might be just seconds ahead of me in his old red Volvo, just approaching the point of the bridge’s collapse made me feel dizzy. I looked around me and saw others, mostly women, gagging from fear. Men gagged behind a curled hand in front of their mouths, as if it were only a cough. They held an attache case in one hand, and “coughed” into the other.
From time to time, I would stick my head over the railing to see what had actually occurred. I finally saw the section that had collapsed.
My first thought as I reached Yerba Buena/Treasure Island was to phone home. Is my son alive? Is the house standing? Is the dog alive? The parakeet? The goldfish, which my son won at a carnival and that had managed to stay alive in a bowl for seven years? I got in line to use the phone. There were shorter lines to buy toilet paper in the Soviet Union than this line. And, while in line, people gagged, cried, smoked fiercely and were frightened and shaken and surprisingly polite and friendly as well. The blimp came over from Candlestick Park to film us. Helicopters circled us. Navy by the truckload passed and waved to us. Boys. Children! Who was saving whom? “Please don’t go out on the bridge, sonny. I’ll go. Your mom will have a fit … God forbid!”
And now I have to decide what will happen inside of me if I find out that the house fell on top of the boy, the dog, the parakeet and the fish. What if I can’t get through, and have no knowledge at all of what happened to my life? I thought about it for one and a half hours. That’s how long it took for it to be my turn at the lone phone. My call confirmed all was okay at home — and I had tremendous energy. I would stay overnight in San Francisco with friends. In the morning, I could get gas for my nearly empty car and cross the San Mateo bridge, if it was still standing.
Safe in Bernal Heights, we listened to helicopters equipped with searchlights to scan the ground, police sirens and ambulances all night long. We watched the Marina burning from the living room window. We plugged the TV set into the cigarette lighter of my friends’ truck and watched the news.
My friends’ Dobermans sniffed me awake in the morning. Two sweet Dobie girls couldn’t figure out what the lady with her toes sticking out of her stockings was doing asleep on their couch. I was dreaming. It wasn’t real. See, it was a dream after all.
This essay has been published on previous October 17ths, in this and other publications. Yes, Loretta Eskenazi is Joe Eskenazi’s mother.
Had just moved to SF on 6 Oct, the day of the Castro Street police riot against ACTUP, and found a room share a 112 San Carlos. It was a warm sunny afternoon, and I was eating We Be Sushi delivery on a rickety wooden deck in the back yard. How much more California could this be? Well, the earth began shaking, that’s now much more.
The deck began moving in 3 space so I was quickly surfing. 2-3 floor buildings heaved on their foundations, moving apart, and then snapping back, releasing dust from their joints. Trees and utility poles swayed 30 degrees back and forth.
Then it was over. Except for the aftershocks, those > MS 5 set off car alarms, two or three of them.
I had a voltage inverter in my 1970 Datsun pickup that I’d just drove across the continent from TX, so we were able to keep the engine running to power the TV. Sadly, the coffee grinder and machine drew too much wattage.
Cops prowled Mission Street in their cruisers, where stores, including liquor stores, were cleaning up their merchandise that fell to the ground.
I had arrived in California!
Back up to North Beach? That’s where my wife and I were heading. We were driving our new car, which we had bought about a month earlier and like Loretta, I was bemoaning getting a flat tire. We were on Union Street and my wife soon noticed the poles holding up the Muni wires were swaying. I tuned the radio to KCBS, but it was off the air. While unusual, it did happen once in a while, so no bad thoughts. We actually had dinner at a sushi restaurant in North Beach. When we got back to the car, everything changed. KCBS was back and talked about the Bay Bridge collapsing and problems on the Nimitz. My wife’s family lived in the Richmond District and my folks in Noe Valley. I figured back up and over Union then through the Presidio was the best route. Once we crested the Union Street hill and saw the fire in the Marina, that’s when some level of panic set in. Remember, no cell phones, so we had to reach our destinations to ensure all was well. My wife’s family had their water heater knocked out, but that was it. From the Outer Richmond to Noe Valley took an hour (no traffic lights). Other than my mom still shaking, there was no damage as their house was on bedrock.
Our trip home to the mid-Peninsula was better, as we knew that our families were safe, but it was still tense. We got home and our neighbors had already circled our home to smell for any gas and found none. Inside, one small figurine above our fireplace had fallen, directly into a deep pile area rug, so no damage. I think we finally got to bed a little after midnight.
The next day was surreal, as we were both called off work. We watched the news most of the day. I’ve only had the feeling one other time as we watched the TV, and that feeling was the same as watching TV on 9/11 after the second plane hit.
Great article Loretta!
I remember feeling dizzy and thinking I was about to pass out – but then I couldn’t get the credit card machine to work so I could finish checking in guests at the hotel. Finally, about half hour later or so, I was told there had been an earthquake, and that is why we couldn’t process credit cards.
I was working at the Royan Hotel at the front desk. I was goofing with a resident’s child as his father stood in the waiting elevator.
Just as the door of the elevator was swinging closed I thought I was feeling dizzy. As I fell against one of the marble walls of the lobby. It was then that I came to realized that it was not me that was dizzy but the building that was moving. Before the shaking had stopped a young man who had been watching the World Series, bolted from the rear lobby through the front door and across Valencia Street before the shaking stopped. I didn’t know anybody could run that fast.
Afterward, the owner and I shut off the gas lines to the building in case of damage.
As we had no electrical power I wound up working a double shift. The next morning I grabbed my cameras and hit the streets. Nobody saw me for three days.
My late wife was working at the old federal courthouse on Seventh and Mission Streets at the time to quake hit.
She and her co-workers were in the basement putting there tools and equipment away when the courthouse began the shake.
With the basement plunged into darkness, Rita led her co-workers out of the basement using the small flashlight that I had given her for her birthday just a month before Loma Prieta. It took her more than an hour to walk home.
The only damage to the Royan was one cinder block that formed the elevator shaft shifted slightly out of the alignment with the rest of the blocks. On the fifth floor, the door to the owner’s apartment twisted somewhat so that it is out of line with the rest of the doors along that wall. Lastly, a piece of the top broke off and fell to the street. So I guess we had it better than some.
Hey M.P.R.!
I have to thank you for your account of how the Royan fared in ’89. I’m a current Royan resident (5th fl.) and will most likely be here “until the end of time”(!!). The hotel has always struck me as being very solidly built. Of course now we have a zillion cell phone receptors on the roof, so they’ll probably get tossed around a bit. Fingers crossed we can make it through the next “big one” in similar shape!
OMG. What a well written tale.
Is this Joe’s mom? Joe is the absolute best and I’m sure you are very proud. Thanks again for this harrowing tale.
Tito —
This is, indeed, my mom. You’re very kind.
JE