Diary

 from

 Sendai,

 Japan

 (Part

 I)

 

  March

 11,

 2011

  by

 Braven

 Smillie

  Sendai,

 before

 the

 earthquake

 and

 tsunami

 that

 struck

  on

 March

 11,

 2011

  March

 11

 was

 a

 cold,

 slow-­‐moving

 Friday

 afternoon

 at

 our

 home

 in

 Sendai.

 As

 a

  freelance

 writer

 and

 translator,

 I

 was

 making

 a

 transition,

 familiar

 on

 such

 idle

  afternoons.

 Having

 finished

 a

 bit

 of

 urgent

 deadline

 work,

 I

 was

 shifting

 gears

 to

  work

 on

 a

 list

 of

 long-­‐term

 projects

 with

 more

 vaguely

 defined

 objectives

 and

  prospects.

 I

 turned

 to

 a

 hobby

 for

 a

 few

 minutes

 to

 pass

 the

 time

 until

 our

 two

  daughters

 would

 return

 home

 from

 school,

 and

 routine

 distractions

 would

 free

  me

 from

 thoughts

 of

 work,

 business

 and

 my

 own

 finances,

 until

 Monday.

  Also

 routine

 was

 a

 brief

 shudder

 under

 my

 feet

 as

 I

 stood

 at

 an

 upstairs

  bathroom

 sink,

 whittling

 on

 a

 piece

 of

 dry,

 white

 clay

 I

 hoped

 to

 turn

 into

 a

porcelain

 figurine.

 Minor

 earthquakes

 are

 commonplace

 in

 Japan,

 and

 having

  lived

 here

 for

 20-­‐odd

 years,

 I

 thought

 nothing

 of

 it.

 A

 moment

 later,

 I

 looked

 up

  from

 my

 work

 to

 take

 notice

 of

 another,

 more

 assertive

 shudder.

 Though

 still

  faint,

 this

 one

 had

 an

 insistent,

 snatching

 character

 I'd

 felt

 before,

 and

 always

  seen

 as

 subtly

 menacing.

 The

 windows

 whispered

 rather

 than

 rattled,

 and

 all

  returned

 to

 normal

 -­‐-­‐

 briefly.

  An

 aerial

 photo

 taken

 of

 fires

 and

 flooding

 in

 Sendai,

  immediately

 after

 the

 earthquake

 and

 tsunami

 on

  March

 11,

 2011

  I

 soon

 set

 my

 sharp

 carving

 tool

 down

 on

 the

 glass

 counter

 as

 the

 floor

 vibrated

  again

 in

 a

 fine

 vertical

 tremor

 that

 seemed

 to

 draw

 out

 longer-­‐-­‐

 this

 one

 wasn't

  fading.

 As

 I

 had

 done

 hundreds

 of

 times,

 I

 decided

 to

 wait

 and

 see

 what

 was

 in

  store.

 The

 vertical

 vibration

 slowed

 in

 frequency

 and

 increased

 in

 intensity

 as

  horizontal

 waves

 began

 to

 snatch

 at

 the

 floor

 and

 walls,

 gently

 at

 first,

 then

 more

  powerfully.

 The

 question

 now

 was

 how

 much

 drama

 would

 be

 appropriate

 in

  front

 of

 my

 wife,

 Chiaki,

 who

 was

 at

 home

 with

 me.

 Do

 I

 dive

 under

 a

 table,

  covering

 my

 head?

 Certainly

 not!

 Stand

 under

 a

 doorway?

 Reasonable.

 As

 I

 stood

in

 the

 bathroom

 doorway,

 suggesting

 that

 Chiaki

 do

 the

 same,

 there

 was

 a

 sense

  underfoot

 of

 riding

 a

 skateboard

 over

 marbles

 or

 pebbles.

 Disorienting,

 but

 ones

  feet

 could

 still

 be

 trusted.

  The

 horizontal

 and

 vertical

 vibrations

 then

 produced

 wavelike

 shocks

 that

  combined

 into

 crazed

 twitching,

 lurching

 motions

 of

 all

 frequencies.

 My

 worry

  now

 was

 whether

 I

 could

 make

 it

 down

 the

 stairs

 to

 the

 entryway

 of

 our

 home,

  which

 I

 felt

 was

 the

 most

 structurally

 safe

 and

 uncluttered

 place

 in

 our

 home.

 As

  the

 rolling,

 jabbing

 motions

 of

 the

 floor

 and

 walls

 grew

 beyond

 all

 past

  experience,

 I

 felt

 all

 confidence,

 all

 sense

 of

 appropriate

 earthquake

  comportment

 slipping

 away.

 No

 longer

 concerned

 with

 drama,

 I

 reached

 for

 a

  railing

 as

 I

 lurched

 forward

 over

 the

 top

 steps

 of

 the

 staircase.

 I

 do

 not

 remember

  gripping

 or

 missing,

 only

 jolting

 forward,

 down

 and

 around

 toward

 the

 entryway.

  The

 motions

 became

 more

 rhythmic,

 like

 riding

 an

 overspeed

 train

 as

 it

  threatened

 to

 jump

 the

 rails

 at

 any

 moment,

 then

 did.

  I

 briefly

 negotiated

 with

 the

 urge

 to

 cling

 to

 normal

 concerns,

 as

 I

 moved

 a

  sculpture

 I'd

 made

 of

 the

 Madonna

 and

 Child

 off

 of

 an

 end

 table

 where

 it

 made

 a

  tottering

 top-­‐heavy

 display.

 As

 I

 placed

 it

 on

 the

 shifting

 floor,

 the

 sound

 of

 big

  things

 falling

 deep

 inside

 the

 house,

 and

 of

 shattering

 glass,

 snapped

 a

 last

  tenuous

 thread

 connecting

 to

 the

 delightfully

 idle

 concerns

 of

 a

 minute

 before.

  “Chiaki?

 Where

 are

 you

 ...

 where

 are

 you?”

 I

 yelled

 to

 my

 wife,

 implying

 that

 she’d

  better

 be

 under

 a

 table.

 In

 fact,

 Chiaki

 was

 doing

 her

 best

 to

 form

 a

 right

 triangle

  with

 her

 body

 in

 efforts

 to

 brace

 up

 a

 prized

 antique

 writing

 desk

 with

 glass

  cabinet

 above.

 do

 not

 remember

 the

 end

 of

 the

 earthquake.

 It

 may

 have

 stopped

 suddenly,

 and

  it

 may

 have

 slowly

 receded.

 I

 only

 remember

 putting

 on

 sandals

 and

 a

 jacket,

  then

 wandering

 out

 into

 a

 light

 snowfall

 to

 watch

 the

 evacuation

 at

 Takamori

  Elementary

 School,

 where

 my

 daughters

 Tina,

 10

 and

 Elena,

 7,

 are

 in

 the

 second

  and

 fifth

 grades.

  A

 map,

 showing

 the

 epicenter

 of

 the

 earthquake.