This week, the tectonic plates beneath Southern California sent a visceral shockwave through the region, reminding the globe of their restless nature and leaving millions of people in a state of primitive alarm. The ground didn’t only shift; it spoke in the serene mountain community of Julian, the huge coastal cities of San Diego, and even into the expansive basins of Los Angeles. For those who were at the core of the vibration, it was more of an abrupt, terrifying encounter with human frailty than a clinical assessment of magnitude.
A low-frequency growl that seemed to come from the very center of the planet, a sound felt in the chest before it was heard by the ears, was the first sound, and it was one that many survivors found difficult to explain. Then the motion. In San Diego, ceiling fittings turned into anxiety pendulums as office towers shook with a heavy, repetitive groan. The typical clinking of plates in cabinets assumed a frenetic, violent rhythm in residential communities. People froze. While others stood motionless in doorways, embracing loved ones as the floor under them transformed into a liquid, unstable sea, others dove behind strong desks, following the trained instincts of a lifetime in the Golden State.
But oddly, the commotion was quiet. There were neither the initial explosions nor the dramatic clamor of collapsing skyscrapers that characterize disasters in movies. Rather, there was a collective gasp, as if millions of people in the city were simultaneously holding their breath. Then it was ended, just as suddenly as the violence had started. A series of sickening after-tremors followed the shaking, and the weird, ringing silence that followed was nearly as frightening as the movement itself.
San Diego was in a state of suspended animation in the immediate aftermath. Blinking in the sunlight, people emerged from their houses and places of business to search for the devastation they were certain must have followed such a startling incident. However, the sirens did not blare all night long. The skyline was still there. There were no cars being swallowed by shattered asphalt or dust plumes from fallen masonry. Emergency agencies’ first reports verified a miracle fact: the infrastructure had held. Locals primarily described psychological “scenes of utter chaos”—the interior destruction of recognized mortality.
The eerie awareness of how blurry the boundary is between a typical Tuesday and a historic tragedy was what hung in the air, more than the odor of dust or the sound of automobile alarms. This time, the earthquake was a proof of concept for technology. For many, a frenetic, high-pitched chirping from their iPhones was the first indication of disaster rather than a rumble in the ground. Five to ten seconds before the first P-waves hit the coastal cities, the early warning system—a network of advanced sensors and fast data transmission—flashed signals onto screens.
Five seconds is considered a heartbeat in the context of a human life. It is the amount of time needed to take a sip of water or fasten a shoe. However, those five seconds are a technological marvel when compared to a seismic event. They are the difference between standing in a corridor and being stuck in an elevator. They are the window through which a parent can reach a child in an other room, a surgeon can lift a scalpel, or a gas main can be turned off. The warning served as a reminder that although nature still has complete control over the terrain of our lives, people are at last starting to pay attention to the planet’s faint, underground murmurs.
The visceral fear had started its unavoidable transition into digital legend by the next morning. In between the tense jokes that characterize California’s tenacity, social media feeds were filled with the shaky confessions of those who had sensed the “Big One” was finally here. Pictures showed broken picture frames, fractured drywall, and coffee spills—small remnants of a big celebration. However, beneath the jokes and the hashtags that read “I survived,” there was a grim reality that everyone wished to keep quiet about: the earth had been merciful this time.
Geological truths of life, the San Andreas and its intricate network of sister faults are not renowned for their kindness. Living in San Diego is like signing a silent contract with the earth, which includes the knowledge that the earth can regain its stability at any time. In a cosmic sense, this incident was a “near miss.” While it was modest enough to keep the water running and the lights on, the tremor was big enough to remind everyone of the stakes.
The Julian earthquake has compelled a reassessment of preparations throughout the region. Sales of emergency kits have skyrocketed in the days following the earthquake, and families are at last having the long-delayed discussions about where to meet, what to carry, and how to survive in a world without a cellular service. The phone alert is a technological marvel, but it is not a treatment. While technology can serve as a warning, it is unable to provide the strength required to navigate a metropolis in the dark.
The pendulums in the high-rises cease to swing, the earth’s rhythmic groan fades into memory, and life resumes a semblance of normalcy, although San Diego residents take a slightly different stride. People have developed the new habit of looking at the ceiling lights, tensing their muscles somewhat when a big truck roars by, and checking the phone’s emergency battery more frequently.
The earthquake served as a sobering reminder of how precarious the modern world is. We construct our steel and glass cities, install fiber-optic lines, and construct expansive highways, all while persuading ourselves that we have mastered the terrain. However, nature has a different kind of clock, one that counts in millennia and centuries. The earth occasionally changes its weight, and during those five seconds of preparation, we are reminded that we are only visitors on a planet that is always changing.
Time is a gift from this week’s earthquake. This is a second opportunity to check the batteries, secure the bookshelves to the wall, and enjoy the profound silence of the stationary ground. A cautious, mindful breathing has replaced the collective gasp of San Diego. We are aware that the buildings did not collapse and that the sirens did not sound this time. However, we are also aware that the fault lines remain in place. They remain there, waiting for the next time the earth feels the urge to move, deep in the dark. Furthermore, nobody knows if the warning will be sufficient the next time.