7.3, Yessiree

This is the only picture we managed to take of the earthquake aftermath. Racing pulses, broken glass clean-up, phone calls from loved-ones in Europe and a bizarre combination of middle-of-the-night haziness and holy-mother-that-was-a-big-ass-earthquake alertness distracted from further documentation.

It's hard to remember exactly what happened but I'm pretty sure Narne would tell you that he woke up at around 2:30 a.m. on Thursday to his wife shrilly screaming "Earthquake! Earthquake! EARTHQUAKE!" and I'd have to agree that I did probably do that. The long, rectangular mirror on our wall was doing a sweeping waltz back and forth, like a massive cuckoo clock pendulum. The noise was distinct and I'll never forget it: rattling (if I may layer on another metaphor) like someone on amphetamines was trying to open the door but couldn't figure out the knob, a bass sound that was balanced on the high end by the ting-clank-smash of candles, glass and toiletries.

I find it rather impressive that, having previously experienced only two mild seismic disturbances (one just after I moved to Utila and another years ago in Peru), from the murky depths of REM I was able to instantly assess the situation and gauge my pitch and volume accordingly, so that JA would leap from the bed directly to his feet with goosebumps so intense that his thousands of freckles were almost forced to evacuate. (The goosebumps returned with each of the first three aftershocks. If only we could train them to sense the disruptions before-hand.)

We ran into Bine's room and I was huffing something about "Gotta stand in the doorframe ...stand in the doorframe!" when Narne shushed me slightly because Bine was still asleep, apparently not having inherited her mother's In Case of Emergency, Panic! response. But she either heard me, the rumbling, or JA and my combined hearts jumping out of our chests because she lifted her head and said, "Go see Ella. Eat-a nut-th!" Which is what she wants to do every normal morning when my voice doesn't resemble a banshee's. (Hair, perhaps yes.)

It was about then that the horrible sound tapered off. I just read on some website that all of this took thirty seconds, which is plausible of course but seems--as people often report in situations like this--mockingly short. I realized that Bine's suggestion was probably a good one: We should go find Ella. If the hairy beast ran away three miles in Chicago, crossing several four lane roads of urban traffic, because of some silly fireworks then who knew what her reaction would be to the earth actually moving beneath her. She wasn't on the back porch, but when I called to her toward the street a familiar dark shadow came bolting from the church yard. She was, to put it mildly, happy to see us. The cat--who is never freaked out, even following a penisectomy--was stuck to the kitchen window sill for a good while, eyes huge like those freaky Photoshopped peepers, when he finally mustered the courage to emerge from the basement.

Overall we were pretty amazed at the miniscule damage incurred. There were some big cracks in the cement downstairs and several broken photo frames. Vases toppled over and spilled their water and plants, and books fell off shelves. (The weighty coffee table ones and the metal candelabra on the ledge behind our bed were pleasant to wake up to, BANG BANG TING-BANG.) One of two neglected champagne glasses fell in the pantry and shattered. Mazel tov! The not so fresh water in the toilet jumped out onto the floor. Massive varnished wood boat pieces that we had just installed in the front room (one of which reaches from the bottom floor all the way to the top of the second floor stair railing) shimmied and shifted but didn't tim-ber thanks to some thorough Norwegian fortification. In the morning when I went down to open up the house the drawbridge wouldn't meet and later had to be sanded down to fit and the sliding latch relocated.

We swept up glass, laughed nervously at our luck, and then returned upstairs to try and put Bine to bed in our room even though she'd decided that it was the perfect time to play with toys. After she finally passed out JA and I stood on the porch off of our bedroom and surveyed the odd calm. A few motorbikes passed by but we didn't see many lights on. A handfull of guests at The Lodge next door had gathered to possibly chug a few nerve tonics at the bar. We wondered if maybe people had slept through it, or if it hadn't been as intense as we thought. Then the phone started ringing. First JA's father. He read about it on the local paper's website in Norway. Sue called next. Camponado (her neighborhood) was buzzing. She wanted to check and see if we were okay and told us that hordes of people there were headed up to Pumpkin Hill in case The Water Came. (There was a tsunami warning, which was canceled shortly after. We were never worried about that since the wave would have come over the north side and we are on the south.) Friend Rolf-Even rang us soon after, concerned. Then Swedish Dan from Venezuela where he had seen the news on Spanish CNN while there filming footage for a movie.

There were sizeable aftershocks during the hours following (apparently we've had FIVE earthquakes with aftershocks sprinkled in betwixt), and with each we gripped the bed and waited out that awful thud-on-steriods combo of the door and mirror. When my pulse rocketed the wee Løken inside me did a jig. If he/she hadn't already inhereted his/her father's adrenaline addiction, the early exposure may have sealed the deal.

I couldn't get back to sleep so I went downstairs and read and ate some oatmeal at about five; I guess near-death, or at least feeling extremely alive, makes me hungry. The internet was down so I called my parents and sister to let them know we were okay. Moncho arrived for work a little after seven and reported that the treehouse had been a wild ride.

There were a few fatalities on the coast, which is of course sad, but considering the construction (or lack thereof) of some shacks both here and on the mainland it was a lucky day, indeed. In general food tastes better, sunsets are prettier, I am even more in love with my family, and I'm pretty sure that my heart got a good spring cleaning from the manic thwoosh-thwoosh-thwooshing over the last two days of aftershocks, or any other random form of thumping like the dog kicking the floor while scratching on the porch. On top of all that, the happy-to-be-alive-ness means I'm no longer fixated on the fact that my pregnant bottom matches the moon in size and craters. For the next week, at least.