CHAPTER 9:
RUN FOR YOUR LIFE
THE PARENTS STILL COME to Okawa Elementary. Alone or in groups, they leave toys on the makeshift altar or stand silently in front of a stone carving of a mother cradling her child. When the weather is cold, they dress the statue warmly in a cap and scarf. Snow blanketed the ground on the day their children died, and it’s as if the grieving mothers and fathers can’t shake the chill.
Like shell-shocked Americans after the twin towers fell, the Japanese gave a name to the most devastating trauma of their generation. They call it 3/11.
When the ground jolted on the afternoon of March 11, 2011, the youngsters in Okawa knew what to do. They dived under their desks and held on. But this quake was different than the ones they’d experienced before. The shaking seemed to go on forever. “Wow, it’s a big one,” one boy said to another, eyes wide with alarm. “Are you OK?”
Everyone was. The school northeast of Sendai was built to ride out quakes. In a well-rehearsed routine, the students grabbed helmets to protect themselves from aftershocks and falling debris and followed their teachers onto the playground. They assembled by grade, first through sixth.
Tsunami evacuation wasn’t part of the school’s regular drills. The concrete complex was nearly two miles from the sea, near the banks of a meandering river. It seemed impossible any wave could reach that far. When the tsunami alarm sounded, people who lived nearby evacuated to the school, confident the two-story building would be safe.
While the students shivered, teachers debated whether to stay put or head for higher ground. One teacher argued they should lead the children up a steep hill behind the school. But it was brushy and slick with snow. Precious minutes ticked by before the teachers decided to shepherd their flock to an elevated roadway by the river. The children marched in orderly ranks, oldest in front, youngest in back. Only as they approached the bridge did they spot the churning mass of water spilling over banks and pouring across fields. The smallest children couldn’t see what was happening. They were bewildered when the fifth- and sixth-graders wheeled around and raced past them. Then the water swallowed them all.
“It felt like a huge gravitational pull,” one twelve-year-old survivor told the BBC weeks later. “I was struggling for breath.” The wave slammed him against the hillside, burying him up to his waist in mud. Another boy used his helmet as a flotation device, then scrambled onto a refrigerator bobbing in the water. The fast-moving flood overtopped the two-story building and crashed through the classrooms.
Cut off from the school by the floodwaters, the children’s families waited anxiously through the night. Rumors circulated that the students were safe, that all of them had made it to the top of the hill. The next day, volunteer firefighters reached the site by boat. The building was a battered shell. Small bodies floated in the filthy water. Of the school’s 108 students, 74 had been swept away. Only 1 teacher out of 11 survived.
When the water finally receded, family members picked through the wreckage and mud, desperate to find their children’s remains. The search dragged on through the spring and early summer. After official efforts ended, one mother learned to operate a backhoe and kept dredging for any sign of her twelve-year-old daughter. “I just wanted to find her with my own hands,” she told a reporter. “To do whatever I could.” In August the girl’s torso washed up in a cove down the coast.
Standing in front of Cannon Beach Elementary, it’s hard not to think about the children of Okawa. The school on Oregon’s northern coast sits a scant half mile from the Pacific Ocean, its playground nestled in the crook of Ecola Creek. The next time the Cascadia Subduction Zone ruptures, the first tsunami waves are expected to hit Cannon Beach in about fifteen minutes.
“This is eight feet above sea level,” said Patrick Corcoran, pulling his truck to a stop outside the 1950s-era school building in September 2012. A row of pine trees and cedar-shingled homes is all that stands between the school’s eighty-some students and the beach. “The water will come from that way like a huge surge,” Corcoran said. “When it does it will pulverize the houses and carry away the school and everyone in it.”
It’s Corcoran’s job to be the bearer of bad news. As a coastal hazards specialist for Oregon Sea Grant, he works to instill in Northwesterners the visceral acceptance that what happened in Japan will happen here. It’s not a message people welcome. “Nobody wants to hear that we’re on top of a subduction zone that rips magnitude 9 earthquakes and generates huge tsunamis. But dude, it’s been 312 years since the last one. We’re overdue on the southern half.”
Corcoran can riff nonstop on the theme of preparedness and the Northwest’s lack thereof, but he has a harder time finding words to describe his visit to Japan a year after the tsunami. Towns just like Cannon Beach, Seaside, Newport, and other Oregon costal communities were scraped bare. All that was left were neatly sorted piles of debris. Corcoran couldn’t keep from crying as his Japanese hosts described the way fishermen lashed themselves to their vessels when they saw the wave approaching. The men didn’t want their bodies to be lost, compounding their loved ones’ grief.
To the Japanese, the loss of nearly twenty thousand lives represented a shocking failure of the country’s disaster preparedness. But only about 10 percent of the people in the tsunami zone perished. Ninety percent evacuated to safety. To Corcoran, it was clear the numbers won’t be as good in the Pacific Northwest. “We’d be lucky if 9 percent would intentionally do the right thing.”
No place in Oregon is better prepared for a tsunami than Cannon Beach, and even the community’s biggest boosters admit they have a long way to go. The upscale tourist town has been holding tsunami drills for more than a decade. For a small fee, residents can stash emergency supplies in one of two shipping containers tucked in the hills above Highway 101.
The youngsters at Cannon Beach Elementary walk the 1.2-mile evacuation route to high ground several times a year. On a clear day, with no buckled pavement and fallen power lines in their way, it takes them twenty-five minutes.
There’s a shorter route, but it leads over Ecola Creek. In 1964 the tsunami from Alaska’s megaquake ripped out the bridge there and deposited it in a horse pasture. Its replacement will likely be shaken to smithereens in a Cascadia megaquake.
Corcoran walked onto the narrow span and pointed out the high ground, just a few blocks from the school playground. “This is the missing link, guaranteed to fail.”
The school complex itself is so wobbly the kids might never make it out the door. Engineers warn that the wooden gymnasium, shaped like a Quonset hut, stands a good chance of collapsing when the ground heaves for several minutes. Classrooms could cave in when the wall of windows on one side shatters. The flimsy covered walkway will tumble down, blocking exit doors.
Local folks know this. They realize that every day students file into the school is a roll of the dice. The long-term plan is to relocate Cannon Beach Elementary and several other schools to a joint campus on high ground. But first the small communities have to buy the land. Then they have to scrape up enough money to construct the buildings. Nobody even ventures a guess as to how much it will cost and when the students will finally be out of harm’s way.
In the meantime Cannon Beach set a more modest goal of building a footbridge over Ecola Creek sturdy enough to survive the earthquake. There’s no need to bother making the bridge tsunami proof, Corcoran said. “If you’re not over it by the time the tsunami gets here you’re going to die.”
If Corcoran speaks more bluntly than most emergency managers, it’s because he isn’t one. Oregon Sea Grant is a kind of maritime extension service affiliated with Oregon State University. It gives Corcoran the freedom to be a pain in the butt. At public meetings he’s the one who keeps steering the discussion away from science to the practical tips people need to survive. It irks him that after spending millions on research to identify the threat, society invests pennies in public education. “This isn’t a geological problem anymo
re,” he said, driving north from Cannon Beach toward the neighboring community of Seaside. “What we have now is a learning problem.”
Japan hammered home the point that tsunamis can kill many more people than the earthquakes that spawn them. At least 95 percent of those who died on 3/11 were drowned or battered by the tsunami and its deadly load of debris. In a Cascadia megaquake, the toll from the ground-shaking itself will almost certainly be higher than in Japan, simply because the roads and buildings aren’t up to Japan’s standards. But just as in Japan, the tsunami is likely to be the biggest killer. “In my mind, there’s no doubt about it,” said Eddie Bernard, a tsunami expert and former director of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration’s Pacific Marine Environmental Laboratory in Seattle.
Just how bad it will be depends on so many factors that it’s almost impossible to predict. More than 125,000 people live and work in tsunami-vulnerable areas of the outer coast, from Esperanza, British Columbia, to Eureka, California. On a sunny day in August, with festivals, 5K races, and antique car shows in full swing, the population can more than double. Even if people in the Northwest were as conscientious as the Japanese about heading for high ground, ten thousand or more could die in the next Cascadia tsunami.
Hurricane Katrina claimed 1,800 lives. The 9/11 terrorist attacks killed 3,000. “How would our nation respond to 10,000 or 20,000 dead?” Bernard asked. “This is not something we’re psychologically prepared for.”
Japan’s response to its tsunami threat was a multibillion-dollar program to buttress the coastline with gargantuan gates and breakwaters. The biggest seawall in the world was constructed across Kamaishi harbor, at a cost of $1.6 billion. On 3/11, the tsunami blew past the barrier like a locomotive over a speed bump. Even if Japan’s fortifications had held, the United States would no more armor its coastline than it would outlaw construction on waterfront property. Over the coming decades, coastal communities like Cannon Beach may succeed in gradually shifting schools, fire stations, and other critical facilities to high ground—if the subduction zone holds off that long. But when it rips, people caught in the danger zone still won’t have any better option than to follow the tsunami evacuation plan spelled out on the back of the sweatshirt Corcoran was wearing: Grab beer. Run like hell.
Minus the beer, that’s the message he preaches over and over. “When you feel the earthquake, get as high as you can, as fast as you can, probably on foot,” he said, as if reciting a mantra. “You’ve got fifteen to twenty minutes.” Only when people grasp that reality do they really begin to prepare themselves and pay more attention to their surroundings. A true believer, Corcoran always carries a backpack stuffed with rain gear, fire starter, and food in his truck. Whether he’s shopping for groceries or hiking on the beach, he always knows where high ground is. It’s not a fearful mind-set, just matter-of-fact.
Pulling into Seaside, Corcoran snagged a rare parking spot on Broadway. The boulevard leads from the waterfront promenade through the downtown strip where shops sell seagull art, pizza, and tee shirts. “We’re in the inundation zone right now,” he said. With a convention center, aquarium, and some of the most inviting beaches on the coast, this town of four thousand can swell to ten times that size in peak season.
No community on the Oregon coast is more vulnerable. Almost every hotel and restaurant is directly in the tsunami’s path, as are more than three-quarters of the homes. Researchers at Oregon State University built a scale model of Seaside in a giant wave tank and slammed it with the equivalent of a thirty-five-foot surge, moderate by Cascadia standards. Community and business leaders watched in silence as the water rushed up Broadway and poured over the tops of buildings. The quake will also permanently lower the ground by several feet in Seaside and other coastal towns, turning waterfront property into tideflats.
High ground is a little more than a mile inland, Corcoran explained. But evacuees will have to pick their way through shattered glass and fallen bricks and cross two creeks on bridges that may not be there anymore. Corcoran once ran the route in seven minutes and thirty-three seconds with a documentary cameraman filming from a helicopter. “Everybody thought I was Brad Pitt. At least that’s what I told them.”
Corcoran’s salt-and-pepper goatee is neater than Pitt’s and he’s a little too tall to body double for the movie star. He makes his rounds of Oregon’s seaports and surfing coves with a yellow paddle board strapped to the roof of his Toyota Tacoma. Everywhere he goes he encounters obstacles and policies that could cost people their lives when the big one hits. You can almost see steam coming out of his ears as he ticks off some of his top peeves.
Take those Tsunami Evacuation Route signs on the roads. “Have you ever seen a sign that said, ‘Stop. You’re in a safe place’?” he asked. High ground isn’t always obvious, and if people don’t learn where it is in advance, they may never get there in time. In many Northwest towns, the closest upland is a knoll choked with blackberries. “We need to identify high ground and make it accessible.”
The tsunami sirens that tower over the beach like something out of the Jetsons drive him crazy. Sure, a few might remain upright and functional after the quake. But don’t count on it. “Don’t be waiting for a siren or an emergency manager to come and take you by the hand,” Corcoran said. “Be your own Jesus.”
And don’t get him started on the fact that it’s legal to sell a beachfront home to a family of six from Iowa and never mention tsunami risk. Nursing homes that sit a few blocks from the beach accept patients without disclosing that their tsunami evacuation plan may be nothing more than moving patients to the top floor of a two-story building.
Gated communities? Imagine trying to pry open that tangle of wrought iron after the ground bucks and heaves for four minutes. Businesses that tout tsunami burgers and sell sweatshirts like the one Corcoran is wearing? No problem. But their employees shouldn’t respond with a blank stare when customers ask them what to do in an earthquake. Corcoran will never forget the motel clerk in Florence, Oregon, who assured him that a jetty would protect the building from a tsunami. When Seaside’s volunteer tsunami advisory group suggested asking overnight visitors to chip in to help replace bridges and improve evacuation routes, hotel owners balked. No one wants to remind customers that a beach vacation could be harmful to their health.
In Japan tsunami awareness is woven into the fabric of life. “When your grandma has gone through a tsunami and earthquake, you’d better believe you get drilled,” Corcoran said, watching tourists stroll Seaside’s sand at low tide. How many of them would know what to do if the ground shook violently? Many would jump in their cars, only to be caught in gridlock or trapped on impassable roads. Others would bolt for the five-story Shilo Hotel, not realizing it could be overtopped or gutted by the water. For those who aren’t able-bodied enough to hike a mile, the eight-story Wyndham resort on the beach is a better bet, Corcoran said. But anyone who can hoof it to high ground should.
Corcoran’s challenge is finding ways to pound those lessons into people’s heads. One-on-one discussions work best, he’s found. At meetings he’ll stay until every question is answered, then chat with folks in the halls. But there’s only one of him. Local emergency managers are stretched equally thin. So Corcoran is always hatching schemes, always brainstorming ways to integrate tsunami awareness into popular culture. If he were a comedian, his motto would be I’ve Got a Million of ‘Em.
Why not design a slot machine that reflects the odds of a megaquake? Better yet, build casinos on high ground and host a tsunami day when the slots are free. Those hang-outs in the hills where teenagers go to drink beer and make out? Designate them as assembly areas. When Seaside hosted the annual Hood-to-Coast relay to raise money for cancer research, Corcoran suggested a Run for Your Life 2K, from the promenade to high ground. Some of his ideas are wacky, and people find plenty of reasons to turn him down.
“Oh, that’s impossible,” he mimicked the naysayers in a voice dripping sarcasm. “It can’t
be done. It’s too hard.
“You know what’s hard?” Corcoran leaned in for emphasis. “Outrunning a freaking tsunami is hard.”
One thing former NOAA administrator Eddie Bernard used to know for sure is that tsunamis top out at about thirty feet. That’s why he takes expert opinion with a grain of salt now. “I’m from that community that says, ‘Oh, we know this stuff,’ ” Bernard said. “My experience is that everything I thought I knew, I underestimated.”
The 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami, with hundred-foot surges, upended prevailing theories. Japan rewrote the book with waves that reached 130 feet in some places. Japanese seismologists were wrong, too. They assured the public that quakes off the northeast coast couldn’t get much bigger than magnitude 8. The country’s costly tsunami defenses were overwhelmed when a quake thirty times more powerful than expected unleashed a tsunami four times bigger than what Bernard’s professors taught him was possible.
So he hesitates to predict how big the next Cascadia tsunami will be. After watching nature slap other parts of the world, Bernard warns it would be foolish not to brace for a similar blow here. But the Pacific Northwest is actually better prepared than Japan in one important way: American scientists haven’t lowballed the earthquake risk. Tsunami simulations and evacuation maps have always been based on a full-rip 9. After Sumatra and Japan, scientists in the Northwest upped the ante even more, factoring in the possibility of quakes up to magnitude 9.2 and larger amounts of slip on the fault. Under those scenarios the models predict waves of one hundred feet in many areas. Under an “ordinary” magnitude 9 megaquake, the models suggest wave heights of up to sixty feet.
Full-Rip 9.0: The Next Big Earthquake in the Pacific Northwest Page 16
