And finally...

Exactly 100 years ago today, at 5:12 in the morning, the San Andreas suddenly snapped a mile west of pre-dawn San Francisco, the rupture rapidly spreading along 300 miles of the faultline in either direction. The ground lurched in some places nearly 20 ft in opposite directions and waves like those of the ocean visibly spread across the ground 2 feet high according to some witnesses. The residents of the city were just beginning to stir when everything they knew went topsy-turvy.

With a tremendous roar, people were thrown out of their beds, buildings shook and rocked like toy boats on choppy seas, churchbells across the city rang out in the clamour before their steeples collapsed, walls came down in avalanches of bricks, chimneys fell in and cornices broke off to tumble onto the sidewalks, skyscrapers swayed, cable car tracks warped, houses were knocked from their foundations, electric and telephone lines snapped, cobbles popped out of the pavement, the Valencia Hotel sank two stories into the ground before collapsing on itself, the monumental City Hall crumbled to rubble. The city's Fire Chief was mortally wounded by falling masonry. The shaking lasted for almost a full minute.

The citizenry poured into the streets in shock and fear and began to take in the damage. But the true horror had just begun. Fires broke out from broken gas lines, knocked-over candles and gas lamps, cooking fires, and despite the tremendous efforts of the fire department they began to spread and merge; there was no water at the hydrants because the mains had broken. Buildings that had survived the shaking -- such as the Palace Hotel, the about-to-open Fairmont, the towering Call Building, the mansions atop Nob Hill -- one by one were consumed by the conflagration. In an effort to create a fire break, the mansions along fashionable Van Ness Avenue were dynamited, but the winds shifted and the newly created blazes rushed back up Russian Hill and into North Beach.

The fire raged for three days until it had consumed over 28,000 structures and left 225,000 people -- over half the city's population -- homeless. Six times larger than London's great fire, twice as big as Chicago's, the blaze is considered one of the world's worst urban conflagrations, and combined with the earthquake still ranks as one of the worst natural disasters in American history.

So this morning, I found myself downtown at 4:30 in the morning with several thousand others crowding around Lotta's Fountain, where quake survivors had gathered in the days after the quake to leave or find word of their missing loved ones and where the few remaining quake survivors still gather annually to commemorate. It was a stirring event to gather in the pre-dawn chill and reflect on what we have or haven't learned, honor the somber event with a moment of silence, hear the sirens wail and bells ring out across the city at 5:12 am, listen to the memories of 108-year-olds first hand, and celebrate a unique city's rich history and vibrant spirit. And you know? I'm glad I got up for it.