San Francisco Island

Prologue   Saturday, April 30 The clacking sound of each grid below the tires of a vehicle has its own rhythm, almost melodic, perfect and soothing. Jim had driven seven of the 8.4 mile span of the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge, eyes fixed forward with an occasional glance in his rear view mirror.  The lower span heading east was not the attractive part of the ride, but occasional views down to Yorba Buena Island and Treasure Island broke the monotony.  From overhead came the same recurring rhythm as traffic headed west into San Francisco from Oakland. It seemed to have been a good decision to have the boys take the bus to Oakland earlier in the morning for their state championship baseball game. The time Jim spent consoling his client on the phone, who had little concern for his day off and family schedule, had cut so far into the time needed for the boys to get to the game they may otherwise have been late. The client’s dilemma kept surfacing in Jim’s mind, but he found it difficult to concentrate for some reason. A flicker of red light in his rear view mirror drew Jim’s attention away from his thoughts. It’s not unusual to see police vehicles on the span, given the number of agencies traversing from one area to another. Military vehicles also go back and forth all the time, as there are bases surrounding Oakland and San Francisco. The flickering lights grew larger, until he could no longer ignore the fact that something was going on behind him on the bridge. Jim’s eyes kept darting from windshield to rear view mirror, each time sure that the red light in the rear view mirror was larger than before. He tried to tune in the radio, but that was impossible while on the Bay Bridge, too much interference. Flashing red lights now appeared ahead of him, seemingly from out of nowhere. He lowered his speed from 50 miles per hour, out of habit, and moved from the center lane further to the right. Glancing again in the rear view mirror, all he saw now were red flickers but for the cars behind him also heading into Oakland, all beginning to slow down. As he reached the end of the bridge where he would normally exit on to the 680 freeway, which would lead him to route 24 toward the ball park, Jim pulled over and motioned to a motorcycle cop on the side of the road. “Good morning, officer. Can you tell me what’s happening?” Jim asked. “Good morning, sir. All we know is that engineers found some structural damage from the little quake we had last night, so they alerted police agencies to close the Bay Bridge in order to assess the damage. It’s probably nothing much to worry about. Better safe than sorry, right? And they’ve closed the Golden Gate Bridge, too.” His badge identified him as California Highway Patrol Officer John Salazar. “Thank you. I appreciate you taking the time to explain. I’m sure they will be through by the time I head back to the city.” Jim put his car in gear and moved forward off the bridge, anxious to reach his son and be away from the area as quickly as possible. He needed to let Katherine know about the bridges being closed before they got caught in the resulting traffic snarl. The girls would have to take the ferry across to get to the game. Once parked along the shoulder, he turned at an angle to better see in the mirror, while reaching for his phone on the charger. Then it happened ...what Californians have feared and expected for years ...a roaring sound exploded under the earth, shaking and rocking every bit of ground like a Disneyland ride. Jim’s heart went to his stomach as he fought an instant wave of nausea—for he somehow knew that life had just changed in a way no one is ever prepared for. The shaking and rolling lasted much too long – longer than it was supposed to, much longer than earthquakes usually last, even the larger ones. When Jim looked up, he saw that the San Francisco Bay Bridge had come loose from the San Francisco side, its suspension flailing about over the opposite shoreline, the boats below it like toys on top of a swimming pool. An awful silence ensued. Radio transmissions stopped, television towers on Mt. Sutro crashed to the ground, and cell phone towers fell. The bright blue sky above, without as much as a cloud, belied what was happening on the ground below. Panic has its own sound. It usually sets in after the initial thirty second shock wears off following a disaster. No planes had flown into skyscrapers. This was an earthquake. The ground stopped shaking and rolling; now people could be heard screaming in the distance. Jim Welles, for the first time in his life, did not know what to do next.