Five Oh Four

[Hardpan Curmudgeon SASS #8967]

Five Oh Four

 

     October 17, 1989.  Five o’clock in the afternoon and life was good.  Most of my co-workers had vacated. But I was still in the office, and undoubtedly would be for some time.  The third game of the Best World Series in History was about to begin and I was going to miss it… but wasn’t worried one bit – I’d set my VCR, and it would just be starting.  My hometown Oakland A’s versus the San Francisco Giants!  I’d make a point of not listening to the game on the radio, and when I did finally make it home I’d settle back with a nice dinner and watch from the start.  It was going to be great!

     Well, as Bobbie Burns said,

          “The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
          Gang aft agley,
          An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
          For promis'd joy!”

     Five o’clock.  I puttered about, seeing the backs of the last stragglers headed for the elevators, eager to begin the 18 floor descent to ground level and their own dashes toward home or to join the throngs at a local “watering hole.”  A small handful remained to tend the finish of the days settlements; me, Mabel Woo, Huey Cassidy, Brenda Bagis, Marie Tarantan…

     Four minutes later life changed.

     With the first tremor we took note. Almost automatically, we all looked for our resident NYB’s (pronounced “nibs.”)   New York Bankers.  We were infested with ‘em.  Brought in by hordes to “save us from ourselves” after a major system conversion had gone south a couple years earlier.  By and large an unpleasantly intense bunch.  Predictably, your typical NYB was capable of increasing the collective blood pressure of a conference room full of natives by his or her mere presence… frequently causing downright unhealthy spikes.  The fortunate thing was that this tended to be a condition with a built-in terminal date.  Invariably, after an indeterminate period of one to three years, an invisible switch would *click* and a most amazing transformation would occur – the NYB would experience an instant conversion to Reborn Californian, surrounded by a “mist of Mellow.” 

     Take David Steinberg or Bob Lyons, for example.  A year and a half we suffered with Steinberg… even if he walked into a conference room unseen and unheard, the hairs on one’s arms and back of the neck would lift and tingle.  And then one day, David (now “Dave!”) strolled in with a smile, dressed in shorts, sandals, and an aloha shirt.  We all smiled… Dave had been ASSIMILATED!  Bob always had one in a defensive state, readily lacing his monologues with degrading statements such as his “definition of the West Coast Work Ethic – ‘DON’T!’”  Then one morning, Bob drove up in an old MG Midget, strolled in with a smile… he had become One of Us.  Downright endearing.

     But this current batch was still pre-conversion. Difficult to live with.  One of our few pleasures was watching them react to local events, such as demonstrations, riots, and of course, earthquakes.

     And what a delight they were when the earth quaked!  Why, they KNEW what to do… they’d been told before they ever made the migration West.  So, at the instant they detected a shiver and determined it was not someone trundling past with a pastry cart, they would immediately brace themselves in a doorway.  If it became anything more, we “natives” would find great delight in noting their expensively-clad butts poking out from beneath desks.  Great fun!

     But not today.

     Not October 17, 1989.  Not at five oh four p m on this day.

     One of my clearest memories of that afternoon was the few NYBs in sight freezing in situ.  Not a one of ‘em made a dash for a doorway or desk.  But we natives did!  Because we KNEW.  We knew this was “The Big Eye-Tee.”  This one was IT!

     I ducked into my office doorway and grasped the doorframe on each side.  As desks hopped, acoustic ceiling tiles flew like errant, rectangular Frisbees, and desktop items crashed to the floor, I watched Huey, Mable, and Marie scramble for cover.  Hearing a plaintive yelp, I looked out and spotted Brenda.  Evidently returning from the Lady’s, she had been just entering our department when IT hit.  And there she was… she’d grasped the doorknobs on each side of the door, and was hanging on like it was a narrow motorcycle handlebar.  Her feet were off the floor; she was squeezing the door with her knees, riding it as it swung to and fro, weakly crying “Mama!  Mama!!” 

     Soon, Brenda was drowned out by a cacophony of rumbling and crashing.  By now all the ceiling light fixtures had popped from their moorings and were swinging by the power cables.  I heard another heartsick sound – the magnetically controlled access doors to the emergency staircase slamming shut.

     We were trapped.

     Eventually, it stopped.  After a few ending shudders and rolls, we “natives” crawled or stepped from our shelters.  The NYB’s continued to stand in place, stock-still… each apparently stunned.

     But we were still trapped.  Obviously, the elevators were off-line, and the magnetically controlled access doors to the emergency staircase were still shut – and could not be opened.

     And it was dark.  Not completely, but electrical power was lost. The only illumination was from the exterior windows and a few scattered emergency lamps.  Surprisingly, the phones were still operable – others quickly checked with loved ones; I reached my missus at home and made a tentative plan for her to meet me at the ferry terminal in Vallejo.

     As I recall, somehow those doors were eventually freed, allowing us to make the absurdly long hike to ground level.  While en route I took a slight detour two floors down to check on my dear friend Dona Johnson.  As expected, she was still there.  Not as expected, the normally calm and unflappable woman was in shock and barely functional.

      “Dona! Let’s go – we need to get out of here!”

     With a vacant expression, she would only say “I think we should wait and see what happens… don’t you?”

     After she’d repeated this twice, I grabbed a phone and found that my boss (who was an otherwise creepy fella) was still in his office.  I knew that he had taken BART to work and would not have a way home, so I quickly came up with a plan:  Dona was in no condition to drive home to Richmond – and had she been, we had not yet heard of the partial collapse of the Bay Bridge.  Jeff would use her car to get home, but would first drive us to the Ferry Terminal.  I would put Dona on a boat to Richmond, and I would board one bound for Vallejo.

     I gently but insistently helped Dona to the ground floor, working our way through a crowd of dazed and lost-soul looking bankers.   Just before we rendezvoused with Jeff, Eric Mendelson spotted me and dashed over.

      “Rocko! The Bay Bridge is down! Look… you can stay at my place in the Marina district for the night – or longer, if need be…”

     I thanked Eric, and told him what we were about. Then I looked to the northeast.  The sky in that direction was covered by a wall of smoke.

      “Eric…”

     He followed my gaze, and groaned. Indeed, it would be many days until he would be able to reach home – and then only to gather belongings and evacuate.

     I wished him well, and Jeff and Dona and I made our way quickly to the garage.  I had Dona give Jeff her keys, and we found our way onto the city streets. Jeff was only able to get us to within three blocks of the Ferry Terminal – the roadways were filled with mobs of people; indeed, the scene immediately brought to mind the countless Godzilla movies of my youth, with half of Tokyo desperately trying to escape the monster. I also noticed that in places the sidewalks were littered with rubble – mostly chunks of masonry; brick cornices and window ledges.

     It’s all still a blur, but after leaving Jeff, I steered Dona to the terminal.  Amazingly, there were two boats there – I managed to get her a ticket and aboard the Richmond-bound ship.  When she saw the collapsed section of the bridge, her mind cleared and she realized what she needed to do.  I don’t recall how she made it home from the terminal in Richmond, but we had that figured out before she embarked. 

     Seeing her safely aboard, I made my way through the crowd to the Vallejo dock.  Oh Christ, NOW what? I thought as I saw the boat standing off from the dock.  Her captain was evidently unsure about the wisdom of trying to tie up, pointing to the bent spire of the terminal building.  Finally, as a result of either pleads and cajoling or shouted threats of his fate later if he did NOT dock, he came in. 

     Needless to say, the boat was more crowded than I’d ever seen. Despite mental images of those Phillipine ferry tragedies we all read about (boats capsizing when overloaded), we boarded and eventually got underway. If there was one fortunate twist to this it is the timing – the ferry had been delayed almost an hour, giving me the opportunity to get aboard.

     And of course, the boat ride was both memorable and forgettable.  I do recall the on-board bar doing a bang-up business, pretty much depleting their stock by the time we reached our destination.  And of course, there were NO “earthquake discounts.”

     But we made it.  When we disembarked, Lisa was waiting for me, wide-eyed and astonished.  We transported another ferry passenger home then drove to our own.  Later that night, after ascertaining that the Carquinez Bridge was open, she drove me to Concord to fetch my li’l Ford Ranger, parked at a bank garage near the BART station.

     Then back home, for a well-deserved glass of “adult beverage.” 

     The following morning would begin the next part of the story – to be shared later.

     And by the way – my recorded tape of the ball game turned out to be a remarkable documentary…

 

                            Ferry Terminal Spire

                            

 

                     Eric's neighborhood

  

 

                            Bay Bridge

     

 

   Collapesed Cypress Structure Freeway = Oakland

       

 

 

 

 

 

Edited October 17 by Hardpan Curmudgeon SASS #8967

[Tex Jones, SASS 2263]

One unforgettable day for sure.  The ferry part reminds me of the ferries that docked in New Jersey with evacuees from the Wall St. docks in NYC on September 11th.  I was off that day but was at the ferry dock in Highlands, NJ with my buddy, a local cop and most of the department from town and surrounding communities who were taking turns riding the ferries back and forth from the cities to provide security.  This was about 3 or 4 o'clock and there were detectives already on site from the NYPD interviewing passengers as they debarked.  Even with all the chaos in NY area that  day, the emergency procedures both in NY and NJ worked as well as they could under very trying conditions.

[Subdeacon Joe]

1 hour ago, Hardpan Curmudgeon SASS #8967 said:

Amazingly, there were two boats there –

 

 

A very well told account of a day both mind numbing and memorable. 

 

Lisa and I were glued to the television watching the news on the San Francisco NBC affiliate.  

 

Why did I quote the above?  Because we broke up laughing,  nearly passed out from it,  when one of the talking heads said,  "The ferries are running across the Bay from San Francisco."

The mental image of drag queans traipsing over the water in full regalia gave us some much needed comic relief. 

[Eyesa Horg]

My step dad got off the Oakland bridge about 30 seconds before it fell. Guess his ticket hadn't been pulled.

[Gateway Kid SASS# 70038 Life]

7 minutes ago, Eyesa Horg said:

My step dad got off the Oakland bridge about 30 seconds before it fell. Guess his ticket hadn't been pulled.

My BIL lived on Alameda Island at the time. That day he came down with a mysterious flu he called the “A’s” fever and left work right after one. Got home, got the snacks arranged just right and settled in to treat his illness by relaxing and watching a socially redeeming telecast of the local sports team. The collapsed bridge that is pictured is either the exit he took to get home or the next one down (been a long time), most days about five pm. Sometimes you get lucky. 
Regards

    

Gateway Kid