Where I was

October 17, 1989, 5:04 P.M.

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Twenty years ago yesterday.

I was on the 43 Masonic bus, which wends its way from City College of San Francisco through St. Francis Wood, through Forest Hill, down through the Haight and up Masonic Street to the Presidio. I was living near 3rd Avenue and Balboa at the time. From City College, I would alight from the coach perhaps on Haight Street and walk home. That was the plan.

I was coming back from my sabre fencing class at City College, taught by my mentor Joe Manzano. I was then an avid fencer and continued to be so for some years afterward. The bus was winding through St. Francis Wood, home to many lovely old houses, each in some borrowed historical style – mock Tudor, Mission Revival, classical Roman, Cinderella Castle and so forth. I have always admired them. A friend from my fencing class was with me, a U.S. Army veteran and a really nice guy. I am ashamed to say that, after so many years, I have forgotten his name.
The bus was crowded with students and lively. Some were listening to the World Series lead-up on portable radios.

As we were making our way through St. Francis Wood, I remember my friend pointing out some of the houses perched on the hillside. He was commenting on how lovely they were, but that he’d hate to own when “the big one hit.” I’m not kidding. He actually said that five minutes or so before 5:04 P.M., October 17, 1989.

At Forest Hill Station, where the Muni (that is, the subway) hits its deepest point underground and has a fine old station, we came to a stop to let more passengers on. They filed in and the bus got even more crowded. I was pointing out to my friend an apartment building that I admired. It was – and is – mock Tudor and stands next to the station, across the street from the North-bound bus stop. I always liked it, though today it is not quite the same. He agreed it was a nice building and, up in Forest Hill, one could feel as if one lived in Sherwood Forest rather than in the middle of the City.

Outside the bus was a large group of raucous high school students, doing what high school students do – shouting at one another and generally making noise. Then the bus began to roll back and forth, gently at first, and then becoming more violent. My friend and I thought it was these high school kids playing a prank on the driver, rocking the bus back and forth. I even shouted through the window, “Hey, you kids, stop rockin’ the bus!”

Then my friend pointed across the street and said, “Man, look at your building!” I followed his gaze to see my admired mock Tudor quiver. It was actually undulating, like a Thanksgiving Jell-O tower. Cracks formed along its sides, shooting down from its roof to its foundation. Masonry began to fall off of it, a piece here and a piece there. It was the damndest thing I ever saw.

People began to scream.

It was at that point that I felt what I can only describe as “the rising panic.” I will never forget it. I don’t know what I was thinking, because I probably wasn’t. I began to rise out of my seat. My friend, evidently sensing my move, gently put his hand on my knee and gave me one, simple, forceful command: “DON’T.” It stands the test of time as the single best piece of advice any person has ever given me. I sat back down.

This all happened in 15 seconds.

When the rocking stopped, and we were all alive, a great cheer went up in the bus. We high-fived one another.

The bus, being diesel rather than one of the electric trolley coaches, simply moved on. We wound our way down the hill, and that was when the gravity of what had happened at last hit us. One fellow bus rider on a transistor radio reported to us that the Bay Bridge had “collapsed.” To us at the time this meant that the whole structure had toppled over, crashing into the Bay, perhaps killing hundreds. We couldn’t know otherwise. Nearing Cole Street, we saw brick facades that had toppled, crushing parked cars. Windows were shattered. Dust was everywhere. The lights were out.

My friend said, “We need to get a drink.” I agreed.

At Haight Street, now nearing dark with no street lights, we got off. We went to Nightbreak, a punk club near Haight and Stanyan that served beer, wine and saki. I can’t say we had a bad time. Every cute, gothie-punkie Haight Street shop girl was in there, their shops closed for lack of power. In a way, it was kind of heaven. The only light was candlelight and, since the power was out, they had no cash registers. If you had a $10 bill, you gave it to them with the promise that you would drink $10 worth of beer. Sorry, no change. I don’t know how they kept track, but they did. (In those days a beer cost a buck-fifty, so you do the math.)

After we’d drunk our fill, it was dark, and my friend and I parted, gazing curiously at the glow of the fires coming over the hill from the Marina. I made my way home, stopping at a corner store to buy a bottle of cheap vodka and some orange juice. I remember one fellow was in a panic, screaming at me and the other liquor buying patrons that we should be buying water, not booze, and that we’d all be starving in a few days. With typical San Francisco aplomb, we ignored him. At one busy intersection – Arguello and Anza, maybe? – I directed traffic with another guy for about a half-hour until a policeman arrived. My room was a disaster: books thrown everywhere, my favorite lamp shattered. Eventually we were “yellow tagged” and had to move out, though to this day I think our landlord hoodwinked us to get us to move so she could up the rent.

That night, I sat on the roof of my flat with my roommates, sipping screwdrivers and watching the dark, silent night, our only light from candles, the helicopters overhead and the eerie glow of the fires away Northward, wondering if we were all going to burn.

Days past and things happened. I made $200 cash – a fortune to me at that time – guarding my workplace, the vintage clothing store, American Rag, then on Bush Street, against looters for two nights, armed with a sword. No joke.

When I look back at this event, my story isn’t much compared with that of others’ who really suffered. But it’s the one I have. And I will never forget.

This post is dedicated to the men and women of the San Francisco Fire Department, who do yeomans’ in this town every single day.

Sky High

In which we zoom-zoom

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The U.S. Navy Blue Angels as they rehearse over North Beach, San Francisco, for the annual Fleet Week air show, taken from the roof of my 7th floor apartment, looking down Kearny Street to the North.

Sunday Blather

In which we talk newspaper

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It is considered a faux pas in the blogging world to link to articles in "the newspaper." However, two stories in today's Chronicle caught me eye and are worth a mention.

The first is by the inimitable Carl Nolte, who writes the "Native Son" column each Sunday. In it, he talks about how native San Franciscans identify one another by place and social status by the high school they went to.

"Two old San Francisco types meet by chance at a party, maybe in Marin, or the mysterious East Bay. They don't know many people at the party, but somebody across the room looks vaguely familiar. So they start a conversation and it goes like this:

"Hi, howareya? Don't I know you from someplace? Whereya from?" The other person is a little wary; everybody seems to be from somewhere else these days. "From?" the other person says, "I'm from here. From the City."

"Oh yeah?" the first person says. "Where didja go to school?" Though the other person sounds like a San Franciscan - talks fast, runs words together, refers to San Francisco as the City - the question about school is the key. It doesn't make any difference if the person has a Ph.D. from Harvard, or used to be the president of Stanford. What we want to know is where you went to high school.

This is the way San Franciscans of a certain age recognize other San Franciscans; the password, the secret handshake. It tells everything: class, status, maybe religion, who your family is and who your friends are."

Read the rest...

The second talks about the Chronicle's presses' last day. The last Chronicle rolled off the old, 50-year-old presses that were owned by the newspaper early this morning. Henceforth, an outside firm will handle the printing. The good news is that the new presses will allow for a more colorful and "crease-free" read, and may allow the company, which lost $50 million last year, to save enough cash to continue operations for a few more years. I hope it does, because I don't look forward to the day when I have to do without my local daily. The bad news is that a lot of long-time Chronicle press men are now out of work.

Brave new world? Feh!

Have You Heard About the Bird?

In which we get all Audubon

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My friends' kitchen window in the O-Town Hills looks out under a driveway deck up against the hill. Not much of a view except that several pairs of birds appear to have nests there. This little chap (above) and his wife seem to planning a family under the rafters nearest the house. What kind of bird is that, I wonder? He's got a very bright and colorful chest.

Remember the Fallen

That is all

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Comin' Up! Comin' Up, Aye!

In which we relate a Coast Guard adventure

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Speeding across the Bay

Our Coast Guard Auxiliary crew met at 0800 and tripped over the Golden Gate Bridge to the Presidio Yacht Club, where the Auxiliary vessel Sunrise awaited us. We were under orders to assist the regular Coast Guard in a Helo Ops (helicopter operations) training mission. Helicopter teams must perform a certain number of training exercises each year in order maintain their flying status.

Today we were to assist in cage drop rescue operations, in which a cage is lowered onto a boat from a helicopter, simulating an emergency evacuation of a sick or injured person.

This was my second on-the-water training, and my first Helo Ops exercise. Any initial nervousness I felt was quickly allayed by the professionalism of our Auxiliarist crew – Flotilla Commander Dave, our Coxswain, Rae, and my fellow crewmen, Leonard and Bill. Honestly, I can't say enough about how much these mentors are patiently teaching me about seamanship. They are truly amazing .

After readying the Sunrise, a beautiful, tricked-out 38-foot cabin cruiser complete with sirens, emergency “cop lights,” radar, depth finder, GPS, etc., and after we had hoisted the Coast Guard ensign, we set off for our rendezvous in the Eastern half of San Francisco Bay.

Whenever a Coast Guard power boat accelerates, the Coxswain calls out “Comin’ up!” and the crew answers back, “Comin’ up, aye!” so that he knows everyone’s prepared for the sudden acceleration. It’s a smart protocol that helps ensure no one falls overboard, but it’s also one that gives the operation a sense of community, like a church ritual.

While awaiting the rendezvous, we underwent a drop anchor / raise anchor drill. It’s not as easy as it sounds.

The Dolphin comes in for a low pass

We were to assist four different helo crews – each consisting of a pilot, co-pilot and an engineer (in charge of lowering and raising the cage) in two different types of cage drops, plus observe a few man-in-the-water drills, helping ensure the safety of the diver.

The day was warm and calm – the Bay almost like glass in the morning – and we quickly grew hot in our “Mustangs” – flotation/survival suits Coast Guard crews are required to wear during on-the-water missions.

We didn’t have to wait long before our helo, an H-65 Dolphin short range recovery aircraft, radioed us, signaling that they were ready to come in. The Dolphin is a beautiful, powerful 9,500 lb. beast, with two Turbomeca 2C2-CG Turboshaft engines boasting 934 horsepower. It has a top speed of 160 knots per hour (184 mph) and a rescue hoist capacity of 900 lbs. It’s a freakin’ high performance demon.

The Dolphin's engineer moves the boom into place and makes ready to lower the cage

The Dolphin came in for a low pass, circumnavigating our boat as per protocol to check out our overall situation and make sure we were safe for a cage drop. The helo crew then radioed the Sunrise that they were coming in for their first drop. This was to be a straight drop into the cockpit of our boat. I observed while Bill showed me how it was done. There isn’t a lot of finesse to a straight drop: The cage comes down and you catch it and haul 'er in. On humid days, the protocol is to let the cage touch the hull of the boat first in order to discharge any static electricity, which can cause serious injury.

Unlike other helicopters, the Dolphin doesn’t make that “whop-whop-whop” sound but, because of its turbojet engines and because the tail rotor is encased in a cowling, it makes this cloyingly loud buzz, like a giant, angry hornet out of The Land That Time Forgot. It’s so loud, in fact, that when it was right overhead at perhaps 20 feet it seemed to give me an auditory hallucination, as if I could hear voices whispering underneath the din. Damned strange, that.

Getting ready to bring in the cage

Then the real work started. Bill and I teamed up to handle the line-drop exercises. This entails the helo engineer dropping a weighted line while the pilot edges the Dolphin toward the boat. One man catches the line and tosses the weight to the other man. As the first man gently brings the line in, the other coils it so that it doesn’t get caught up in anything. At the last second, the hauler pulls fast and hard as the cage is dropped, bringing the cage into the cockpit of the boat – usually banging the hell out of the transom or fantail in the process. (Sorry, Rae!)

It’s rough and potentially dangerous work – everything is in motion: the aircraft, the boat, the waves, and the cage, which is just heavy enough to knock you out or overboard if you are not careful. At one point, as the cage was being raised out of the cockpit, my leg got caught in the line. I had a moment there when I was sure I was going to get pulled up and out, leg first. Luckily, I untangled myself in the nick ‘o time. Whew!

In all, we did 20 cage drops with four different air crews, two in the morning, two after lunch. We also did man-overboard drills and I was taught radio protocol and manned the helm to boot.

Dropping the cage

Our second-to-last helo team of the day was so pleased with our performance the pilot buzzed us by way of salute, coming in so low I thought he was going to scratch our paint.

Then we observed the man-in-the-water drills, in which a diver leaps from the helicopter at a height of perhaps 20 feet and is then plucked out of the water on a rescue line. Talk about drama.

Hauling in. I recommend gloves next time.

I’ve done a lot of things you could call adventurous in the last 20 years – surfing, snowboarding, skydiving, etc. – but this takes it. That’s because this is real. There is no script, no groomed runs, no lift chairs, no beer in the lodge at noon, no sexy girls on the beach. You’re doing an important job at service to your community and your country. It was one whole hell of a lot of work, but I loved every second of it. It's about the most fun you can have with your pants on.

Lifting the diver out of the water

And, in the unlikely event that I happen to be aboard a vessel in need of a helicopter evacuation, I’ll likely be the only guy on board who knows how to do it. That's a pretty exhilarating feeling.