Yet another earthquake hit California, this one a 5.3 midsized jolter that emanated from about 15 miles east of my pad.
I’ve lived in California for about seven years and this was the first one I really felt in a long, long time (I actually slept through the decently sized one this past Sunday).
Let me say that earthquakes freak me out a good little bit. However, they rank below tornados on my scare-o-meter. Let’s just say that when I’m between the coasts, I cower at a cloud formation that even looks at me the wrong way.
Everyplace has its geographic up and down side, I suppose. I know of people who are retreating from the idea of ever moving to Florida after the state was ravaged last year by hurricanes. And this is from native New Yorkers, who are contractually obliged to move to the Sunshine State upon retirement.
What scares me is the conventional wisdom that a big earthquake hits California every 10 years or so. Maybe we’ve dodged the bullet this week, though, with the nasty one that hit off the Northern California coast and now the few little ones we’ve had down here in SoCal.
I soothe myself with logic and odds: if SoCal has been around X number of years, the odds of it disappearing into the sea in my lifetime are relatively tiny. This helps chill my nerves in terms of flying, asteroids, getting hit by lightning… all kinds of stuff.
I dig SoCal a whole hell of a lot. The weather is phenomenal, the people and diversity are great, the food and wine is varied and plentiful, and the beaches are the best in the United States.
I just hope I live to tell the tale.
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