The first place you feel an earthquake is your stomach. Right where you feel fear and heartbreak, the place that drops away when you’re falling through the air or in love. For a moment, it shifts. Then everything is shaking.
I remember the exact moment I knew how serious this was going to be. A long aftershock was gently rocking my house, and I was watching the news break online. The whole country was shaking, but everything sounded as good as it could be. There are few places more prepared for an earthquake than Japan, and there were no reports of buildings collapsing. And then: “Seriously, anyone on east coast of Japan needs to head to high ground.” My stomach dropped. It was time for work. The wave rolled in.
That night we knew what had happened, but only saw people trying to reach their families on Honshu. We heard most had no electricity, but fortunately everyone was safe. At that point, for us, it was disaster without death. The next morning we saw what had happened. Exactly what you saw. The Japanese, who weeks earlier were searching through the rubble of Christchurch, were now struggling with tragedy of their own.
It was one of those increasingly frequent and intense reminders of the fragility of human existence. A reminder that everything, no matter who you are, can be ripped from you with total impunity. Families, friends, homes, lives. Anything you hold closest, value above all else, can be destroyed. We are fragile, and we are invincible, and we are beautiful.
Suddenly we were caught at the centre of the global news cycle. “I’m safe, everything is fine,” was not a mantra we repeated to ourselves, but to everyone back home. What can you possibly say to yourself? What else can you say to them? “Don’t watch the news on TV,” would have been a good start. We were calm and collected. As the days passed, reporter/actors dramatized the images bouncing around the globe. What they said reached everyone who cared, and through them, came back on us with a ferocity I could never have imagined. I lost track of who knew I was ok. I also lost track of who was ok here. A lot of people were stable until they listened to the wrong person. Occasionally that was someone here, but mostly it was anyone out there.
Nuclear fear. Rumours, tension, distrust. Town cleared out. First the tourists, then people like us. The entire staff of a ski shop left in the night. Who knows what they heard. A little fear caught in a feedback loop will consume anyone. Who is telling the truth? Are we about to be part of the worst nuclear accident in history? If we had to, could we get out? What if this is the end of our world? These are not questions you ask every day. After what we had seen and experienced, we understood life can end at any moment. Knowing you might have to flee at any moment is something much harder.
We went to work, and followed the news. We toasted to the end of the world. We made green tea. We ate breakfast in the sun. We bought each other coffee. We cooked with good olive oil, or said forget cooking. We talked, went riding, listened to the XX and Nina Simone. We held each other together. What the fuck else would you do? There was calm and stress and laughter. Our radiation humour was on point. There was gravity. I felt grounded. It was possible to see with the manic clarity of chaos and fear.
Can the whole world feel something? Because I’m right fucking here, and I can feel it. Can you feel me? I want to reach out to you, and you want to reach out to me, but can we connect? These are the moments you find out. They are the moments that define you in ways you can’t immediately understand. You will always remember them, but don’t know what you’re going to remember.
In Japan I have seen the same thing I witnessed in Louisiana as New Orleans was evacuated and Gustav hit. Only now I understand it. Home is the place from which there is nowhere else to go. Earthquake, tsunami, nuclear disaster, or hurricane. I have watched people bear them all with tears and laughter. Drawing strength from each other, because there is nowhere else to go. They are home. It’s a sense of place so strong nothing can break it. I see it in certain places, cultures and generations. I’ve seen it in Japan and New Orleans. I come from a place, a culture, or a generation which lacks that sense. What will happen when we inevitably have to deal with tragedies of our own? I know one day this will be Vancouver, and living there may never feel the same again. One plate slides under another, just like they do here.
We are all here. With each passing day, the world gets smaller, and we become closer. Within this tragedy I am nothing, but I hope I somehow brought you closer to the people who are really hurting. To the life, love, fear, death, heartbreak and strength in this moment.
People grow together, and they grow apart. The universe brings us together, and it tears us apart. The most valuable thing you can have in this life is a bond with another person that remains unbreakable when it does.
Peace.
Max Hill is defined by his drive to be different. It is his creative fuel—the foundation of how he thinks, dresses and skis. Ask him about his riding and he’ll tell you bluntly, “Once someone does something even relatively close, I won’t touch it again.” His uncompromising method has fooled some critics into believing he lacks the skill to keep up with skiing’s best young talent, but don’t let the illusion fool you. Max isn’t motivated to be good at what everyone else is doing, in fact, he couldn’t have less interest. His passion is doing what no one else has done before. “We try to get the shot that we can only do once, to get away from it,” he explains, “If we fuck up, the shoot is over. It’s sketchy, but amazing. One shot, one off. It’s everything you ever wanted to capture.”
