A Waterquake?

Sometimes living in a floating home suggests an earthquake.

I have experienced several earthquakes over the years.  The last one occurred in Portland many years ago when I was attending grad school.  I was studying in a window carrel, absorbed in my textbooks, when the floor lurched.  Tilted.  Hundreds of books tumbled out as the tall shelves near me rocked back and forth.  I sat there, frozen until the movements stopped.  Then I grabbed my belongings and hurried outside to join other students, in awe of what had just happened.

My earthquake experiences have been slight.  Although scary, I have been fortunate no significant damage or injury happened.  That unsettled feeling, of the earth losing its permanence, is the only lasting impact.

Living in a floating home is like living on land, in that I don’t really think about its placement too much.  The homes are anchored to long, floating logs, which are in turn tethered to sturdy metal poles.  These rusty anchors rise high into the air, the markers of our permanence in this place.  Often, I’m not even thinking about the realities of my home floating right on the water.

Until I do.

The other day, a windstorm blew through our city.  We received the alerts on our phones and rushed to put away anything on the docks that could blow away in a storm.  My partner covered the boat, and I tucked away the outdoor cushions.  We then headed back inside, back to the demands of the workday.  An hour later, my partner came out of his office, wide-eyed.  “What was that?” he wondered aloud.  I had been comfortably ensconced on the couch, absorbed in a writing project.  He reported standing at his desk when the floor lurched upward.  His desk shifted and he had to hold onto his pencils and papers as they slid towards the floor.  I hadn’t felt any movement, as I was not grounded immediately to the floor, I had just ridden the wave such as it were.  When I stood and joined him at the French doors, we could see the rush of water; the surge that had preceded the shift in our home.  The chandelier swung and the floating dock outside rocked in the waves.

And then it was over.  The shift was fleeting, the gusts from the winds died down.  Our surge could have been enhanced by a boat moving too quickly past our moorage too; despite the no-wake warnings, eager boaters often ignore them and set our houses to rocking in their wake.  Either way, we felt it.  The surge of the water and the rush of movement.  Followed by the stillness and the return to normal.

And just like in an earthquake, a waterquake passes quickly.  The house was quiet; the chandelier was still, and the dock merely floated again. 

And just like in an earthquake, only the unsettled feeling remains.