Thursday, March 20, 2025 – Day 219

Thursday, March 20, 2025

Good morning, everyone!

Just over 15 years ago, on January 10, 2010, a devastating 7.0 earthquake struck Haiti, lasting a mere 30 seconds but causing unimaginable destruction. I still remember watching the footage—entire buildings collapsing, people trapped between layers of concrete like a collapsed stack of pancakes. By the time the final count was in, around 250,000 lives had been lost. It was terrifying to see the rescue teams working against the clock and the relentless aftershocks, desperately trying to pull survivors from the rubble. I couldn’t begin to imagine what it would be like to be trapped for days, buried beneath tons of debris—and I never wanted to find out. That earthquake stayed with me.

Then, just a couple of weeks ago, on March 6, 2025, a 6.1 earthquake struck Chile. As far as I know, there were no fatalities, and the damage was minimal. Chile sits in the “Ring of Fire,” a region notorious for seismic activity.

This brought me back to February 27, 2010. I was in Santiago, Chile, on a work trip to upgrade software. The night before, our small team of four was celebrating the near-completion of our project. Chile is known for its excellent wine, and we sampled more than a few bottles before finally calling it a night just after 11:00 PM—late for me, I know.

Early that Saturday morning at 3:34 am,,while I was deep in sleep, I felt movement. In my dreamlike state, it didn’t register—until a lamp crashed to the floor. That was an instant wake-up call. I shot out of bed, but as I stood there, groggy and disoriented, I struggled to comprehend what was happening. The room was moving. The hotel itself was swaying. Within seconds, reality slammed into me as I watched more objects tumble to the ground.

I grew up in the Midwest. I knew tornado drills inside and out, but earthquakes? I had no idea what to do. Instinctively, I moved to the bathroom doorway—it just felt right. By now, fear had taken hold. The entire building felt like it could come down at any moment. Tiles popped off the walls. The water in the toilet bowl sloshed violently onto the floor. I was petrified.

I had my phone in hand. Not knowing what else to do, I considered calling home—to say goodbye. I genuinely believed I wouldn’t make it out. And then, the images from Haiti flashed through my mind. I remembered the scenes of buildings pancaking and thought, No way. I do NOT want to be trapped like that. I was on the 15th floor—if this hotel collapsed, I’d be the top pancake. Yes, these were the thoughts racing through my head.

By this point, the shaking had gone on for about a minute, and it was only getting worse. The swaying, the crashing sounds, the sheer chaos—it was all screaming one thing: GET OUT. NOW.

I wanted to live. I wanted to see Cindy and my kids and again.

I grabbed my pants and threw them on. I already had a t-shirt on—no time to change. I grabbed my shoes—no way was I walking on broken glass. I snatched my wallet—so they could identify me if I didn’t make it out. A liter of bottled water sat on the floor, but in my panic, it never even crossed my mind to take it—just in case I got trapped.

I bolted out of the room and saw the glowing exit sign for the staircase. Everything felt like slow motion. I hit the stairs, counting down the floors as I ran—until I caught up to an elderly couple cautiously making their way down. They were in their nightclothes, barefoot. I remember thinking about how vulnerable their feet were if debris started falling. A ridiculous thought, given the circumstances, but there it was. They were moving too slowly. I couldn’t afford to wait. Taking the outer edge of the staircase, I called out, “Excuse me, excuse me,” as I squeezed past them.

I reached the lobby, burst through the front doors, and saw a crowd of people huddled outside—right next to the building. Are you all nuts?! I thought. This thing could collapse any second! Not my problem. I sprinted to the middle of the intersection and spun in a full circle, scanning for the first building to go down so I could run in the opposite direction. I stood there alone, hyper-alert, ready for anything.

The earthquake lasted three long minutes. When it finally stopped, the buildings around me were still standing. Relief washed over me, but uncertainty remained—what was coming next? I immediately called home. It was just after 1:30 AM there, and Cindy picked up, groggy but alarmed by the urgency in my voice. Midway through my frantic retelling, she interrupted me.

“Have you been drinking?”

“Yes,” I admitted, “but that was hours ago!”

As I kept talking, she realized I was serious. She turned on the TV to look for news, but it took hours before the networks even reported the quake. Information trickled in slowly, and my spotty cell service made it difficult to check in with her. I can only imagine how frustrating it must have been for her, waiting for updates.

When the final reports came in, the quake registered at 8.8—one of the largest ever recorded in Chile, though not the biggest. It killed 500 people, a staggering number but far less than Haiti’s 250,000. The difference? Chile’s strict building codes. There was damage, but without those regulations, it could have been catastrophic. I was in the right place for an 8.8 earthquake-

The airport was heavily damaged and would remain closed for days. We were stuck in Santiago as Mosaic scrambled to get us out. Aftershocks were a constant threat, but the growing concern was civil unrest. With infrastructure crippled, people feared food shortages, riots, and looting.

Four days later, we were finally able to get to the airport—but it was inside, it was in ruins. Makeshift tents had been set up outside for processing departures. The army was everywhere, maintaining order. It took a long time to get cleared, but I didn’t mind. I preferred the wait over the alternative—being caught in a riot if things turned ugly.

We were among the first to leave. As our plane lifted off, a wave of relief swept over me. We were going home. Once we were in the air, we popped open a bottle of champagne. We had survived.

What does this have to do with ALS? Nothing, really. But if this experience taught me anything, it’s that when you think it’s over, a little fight can save you. And I’m still fighting.

Have a great day.

Love you guys!❤️