I was 21, and I was leaving home for the first time, riding the Northwestern Pacific Railroad from Humboldt County to the Naval Training Center in San Diego; from there, I was to ship out to Pearl Harbor on December 4, 1941.

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September 20, 1941: Pop woke me. He wanted to say goodbye before his ride to work arrived. I hadn’t slept much; I was too keyed up. Two weeks earlier, I had enlisted in the Naval Reserve as a carpenter’s mate, third class. I qualified for that rate because I had completed an apprenticeship in the Carpenter’s Union: that meant only three weeks in boot camp, and a starting pay of $60 a month, instead of the $21 a month as an apprentice seaman. The enlistment was for one year. Mom was up. as was my younger brother. Frank, and my sisters, Helen, and Marion. My older brother, Al, drove me to the station. I left with a change of clothes and my Ziess camera. Two and a half years and 200,000 miles of water passed under my feet before I saw my family again.

Mom had packed a lunch for me to eat on the train; there was no dining car on the Northwestern Pacific between Eureka and San Rafael. At the depot, I bought a couple of Cokes. Walter Cave, the conductor and a neighbor of ours, greeted me. There were very few people in the three passenger cars that foggy morning.

I had ridden a train once — a logging train, when I was twelve. Howard Smeds and Varvel Carter and I had hitched a ride to the logging camp southeast of the Cutten Tract where Howard’s aunt worked as a waitress in the cookhouse. We were angling for a free lunch.

We rode our bikes as far as we could up the trail, stashed them, and walked to the clearing that met the railroad where it made a sharp bend on an uphill grade. The train had to slow down at that point and it was easy to catch one of the empty cars.

Howard’s aunt gave us a good lunch. When the train was loaded with logs, we hitched a ride back to our bikes.

Several years later, we made the trip again, only this time, it was a long hike. In the Depression years, the mill had gone into receivership, and the logging camp was abandoned. The rails and cross-ties were removed. The six or seven trestles, some fifty to seventy feet high, were left with two large girders supporting the cross ties and the rails. Without railings, we walked those girders on the trestles high above the stream. Vandals had broken the windows in the camp, but the stove, tables, and benches remained in the cookhouse. Cots and mattresses, torn and littered by pack rats, were the bunkhouse.

December 6, 1941: Aboard the USS Harris, at sea. The weather was better: we’d had a windy night. Topside, the rail was lined with sailors hanging their heads over the rail; to get to the chow line, we had to step over seasick sailors lying on the deck.

My best friend from boot camp. Morry Couch, and I were up on the deck near the fantail, relaxing on a metal still in ready box. I said, “Morry, I’ll be twenty-two tomorrow. Do you think Cookie will bake me a chocolate cake?”

“It’s Sunday,” Morry said. “We’ll probably have cake for dessert.”

December 7, 1941: Morry and I were standing on the deck at 0730. We’d eaten breakfast, and we were watching the sun rise over the white caps ofthe Pacific.

“Happy birthday, Ted,” Morry said. “I bet you’ll never forget this one.”

Suddenly, the PA system crackled and the captain spoke. “… Pearl Harbor has been attacked by the Japanese Air Force…. We are now at war with the Empire of Japan…”

Only a year earlier, a Japanese ship had pulled into Humboldt Bay and taken on a load of scrap iron. Now, I thought, they’re going to shoot it back at me.

December 11, 1941: The USS Harris entered the channel to Pearl Harbor. We lined the rail on both sides, and approached a battleship on the port side. She was hard aground, her hull low in the water. It was the USS Nevada. The USS California was next. Her #l 14-inch gun turret was awash with water lapping at the barrels.

We saw the Oklahoma with half its bottom and keep showing; the West Virginia and Tennessee were burned-out hulks, sitting low in the water. Only the top of the 14- inch #2 gun turret on the Arizona was visible.

Ted Gruhn, following boot camp in 1941, a carpenter’s male, third class. Photo courtesy of the author. via the Humboldt Historian.

December 23, 1941: My bunkmate, Glen Moody, and I received a message to report to the personnel officer. As we stood at attention, we were told that we had both been assigned to Honolulu Shore Patrol duty, beginning the following Monday.

“Sir.” I said, “I was looking forward to sea duty on a destroyer. Is this a permanent assignment?”

“Yes, Gruhn, this is a permanent assignment for as long as your SP commanding officer wishes it to be.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, “and a Merry Christmas to you, too.”

December 29, 1941: The dress code for the Shore Patrol was white uniforms, khaki leggings, and a Shore Patrol insignia or brassard, worn on the upper arm opposite our petty officer rating. On our G.I. webbed belt, we carried two extra clips of .45 ammo, a holster, and a night stick. We were also required to carry a gas mask in a khaki bag slung over our shoulders. The gas mask was bulky, a pain to carry, and always in the way. Sometimes, we would hide our gas masks under the bunks or in our lockers, and stuff paper in the carrying bag so it was lighter to carry. If we’d been caught, it would have been our ass.

This day, the Shore Patrol conversation was football and the Rose Bowl game that was to be played three days hence at Duke University in North Carolina. Pasadena was considered too close to tbe Pacific: the Rose Bowl could become a target for an enemy submarine. Oregon State was Duke’s opponent.

The Shore Patrol had an overbalance of easterners and midwesterners: Duke was their favorite.

“Oregon State won’t have any trouble with Duke,” said Moody. “We’ve got the best quarterback and receivers in college football.” Moody had played football for Oregon State a few years earlier.

I said, “Don Durdan, tbe quarterback for Oregon State, was one of my classmates at Eureka High School. He was one of the best quarterbacks we ever bad. Oregon should take Duke easily.”

That football game went down in history as the only Rose Bowl game every played outside Pasadena — and it was won by Oregon State. Don Durdan, the winning quarterback, joined the Army Air Force after graduating from O.S.U. and was killed in a bomber crash during the war. [Ed. note from 2024: No, he wasn’t.]

December 30, 1941: I was partnered on Shore Patrol with Flanagan, a Marine. Our beat area was within walking distance of the Old Naval Station, up Bishop Street, past the Main Post Office, to the YMCA.

“Let’s have a coke,” Flanagan said, and he walked up to the sandwich shop counter in the YMCA. I pulled out my wallet as the counterman poured two Cokes. He waved my money aside. “It’s on the house,” he said. “SPs don’t have to pay.”

Most of my patrol in the months was in the lower section of Honolulu, starting at River Street, up Beretania, to Pauahi, and winding up on Smith, an area where old rooming houses above businesses were brothels.

Honolulu was famed for its cathouses. The military brass allowed the houses to operate openly; the Shore Patrol had to check them out three or four times a day, handling disturbances caused by unruly or drunken servicemen. Six days a week, the houses opened at 1000 and closed at 1600. In most houses, the hookers would tum a trick in less than five minutes. This caused no end of trouble for us SPs: the serviceman always felt he was cheated. Prophylactic stations were set up in a few places to control gonorrhea. And the Shore Patrol doctor, accompanied by an SP, made a weekly check for cleanliness of the girls, their rooms, and the wash facilities. I had that duty twice.

The New Senator rooms, on Hotel Street, had the hookers on a production line. Each girl was set up with three cubicles. The first was for a guy to get undressed, the center contained the bed, and the third was for the guy getting dressed. The hookers never handled money. Built into the wall between the hallway and their lounge was a cabinet that contained a series of boxes. The end of the box facing the hallway had a slot big enough for a poker chip. The box could only be pulled out from the lounge room. The going price, $3, was collected by the maid who then deposited a poker chip, worth $2, in the hooker’s box. When the days’ work was over, the girls — most were from stateside — retrieved their boxes from the wall and counted the proceeds.

On one of our rounds that included the New Senator, Moody and I went up to the hookers’ lounge and had some highballs. That was against SP rules, but it wasn’t the first time we’d broken the rules. One of the girls opened her box of poker chips and counted her money: $120 in one day. In 1942, that was a lot of bucks. Most of the girls’ earnings were spent on diamond jewelry. A merchant came to the lounge, spread the diamonds on a green felt cloth, and the girls shopped. Prices went up to $5,000; diamonds were how the earnings were hidden from the IRS.

February 8, 1942: Sunday. After mass, I was on liberty. I walked to the Honolulu Yacht Harbor on Ala Moana Drive. As I got to the end of the main dock, one of the yachts caught my eye. It looked familiar. It was moored about a hundred yards from where I was standing, a little sloop, about 30 feet long. When the stern swung around my way, I could make out the name. Idle Hour.

In the summer of 1937, the Idle Hour, on a voyage down the coast from Portland, had put into Humboldt Bay and tied up to the Eureka Yacht Club dock. Dwight Long was at the helm. Long was circumnavigating the world, and was docked in Humboldt harbor to wait out a Pacific storm.

Milton Rolley and I had gone to the Yacht Club to secure the Little Lady, our Snipe sailboat. We saw the Idle Hour, and introduced ourselves to Long, a man in his late twenties. He invited us aboard.

“I’ll hit Tahiti and other South Pacific islands.” be said, “then on to Australia and the Indian Ocean, into the Red Sea, through the Suez to the Mediterranean, up to the Atlantic, then from England, to Cape Town, South Africa, across the sea to the Panama Canal, up the Pacific coast to Portland. Itinerary subject to change at any time.”

We were awed. Long estimated his trip would take two and a half years. In 1940. we met Long again. He was back in Eureka, showing slides at the yacht club, to promote his book, Seven Seas on A Shoestring.

Now, in February 1942. as I watched the Idle Hour bob around the mooring buoy, I saw a figure moving in the cockpit. I’d worn swimming trunks under my uniform. I decided the swim wasn’t that far, so I undressed, removed the newspaper I’d stuffed in my gas mask bag, folded my uniform and stored it in the bag. I swam the hundred yards to the Idle Hour, and yelled. “Ahoy! Idle Hour! Permission to come aboard!”

“Permission granted,” a man yelled back. It was Dwight Long; not too much changed, except for more weather-beaten lines in his nut-brown face.

We drank a few beers, and Dwight said he’d been on his way to the South Pacific again, intending to visit New Caledonia, New Hebrides and the Solomon Islands when the Japanese hit Pearl Harbor.

“I’m on the light cruiser, the USS Vincennes,” he said, “the junior navigation officer. We’re pulling out of Pearl soon for the South Pacific. The Idle Hour stays here until the end of the war.”

When the afternoon ended, Dwight rowed me back to the pier in his dinghy. I pulled my uniform out of my gas mask bag, dressed, and the two of us walked to Ala Moana Drive. We shook hands before he boarded the bus to go back to Pearl and the USS Vincennes.

The Vincennes, and the cruisers Astoria, Quincy, and the Australian cruiser Canberra, were sunk during the naval battle in Solomon Islands six months later — on August 7, 1942. One thousand sailors went to rest on Iron Bottom Sound. Dwight Long was among those listed as missing in action. I don’t know what became of the Idle Hour. [Ed. note from 2024: Once again, no. Dwight Long survived the war just fine.]

November 19, 1942: We were loading buses at the railroad station when I heard a voice behind me say. “Ted Gruhn! What the hell are you doing here?”

It was Clarence Smeds, a Eureka friend I’d known all my life. Clarence had a first class electrician’s mate insignia and one hash mark on the sleeve of his white jumper.

“Kelly Smeds!” He was the best friend of my brother Al. Kelly’s younger brother, Howard, was my buddy from the logging train jumping days.

Kelly said that his ship, the USS Farenholt, a destroyer, was in dry dock at Pearl for battle damage repair that had occurred at Guadalcanal on October 11-12.

Kelly said the repairs would take a couple of months, and he asked to me come out to the ship for a tour. November 28, 1941: I found Kelly Smeds in the Farenholt electrical shop. We walked back to the after-deck house, which contained the head and showers, and the ladder that took us below to the berthing compartment. Canvas pipe berths down each hull side of the ship and in the center flanked two passageways to the rear berthing compartment, which held the ammunition handling room for the #4 five-inch guns.

We made our way to the carpenter shop in the starboard stem compartment. The carpenter shop was a small compartment, eight feet wide and twelve feet long, with a wood-topped work bench along the hull side. On the opposite bulkhead was rack for pipe and miscellaneous metal.

Back up on deck. Kelly and I walked from the fantail where the depth charge racks were, to the break of the fo’c’s’le, where the deck rose up several feet to the bow of the ship. Along the way. we saw workmen installing 20 mm rapid fire guns in the newly built gun tubs. Up on the fo’c’s’le, we spotted sailors chipping paint on the deck, Kelly said, “Ted, see that kid who just stood up? He’s from Eureka. Maybe you’ll recognize him.” I did. It was Jack Johnson, Varvel Carter’s nephew who had lived with the Carters, our neighbors.

I tapped Jack on the shoulder. “It’s hard to imagine three of us from Eureka standing on the deck of the same ship,” I said.

Before I left the Farenholt that day. Jack — on the ship, he went by his real name, Roy — told me that a second class carpenter’s mate, Lane, wanted to be transferred. Maybe I could work a swap.

“Ted, do you really want to get on this ship?” Kelly asked. “You’ve got good safe duty now; you can stay on Shore Patrol till the end of this war. The Farenholt is headed back to the South Pacific as soon as she’s repaired. You could get killed.”

December 2, 1942: I was driven in a truck to the Farenholt’s dry dock at Pearl Harbor. Lane, my replacement, was waiting, his sea bag at his feet. We shook hands. Lane climbed in the truck and drove off, and I hoisted my gear and climbed the ladder to the deck of the dry dock and the quarter deck of the USS Farenholt D.D. 491. I presented my orders to the officer of the deck. I was now officially a member of the crew.

And I was on my way to the war.

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Ted Gruhn returned from the war, and stayed in the construction business for 45 years. He retired as a construction estimator in 1985. He has been married to his war-time sweetheart. Lillian, for sixty years. The Gruhns live in Concord. Ted’s brother, Frank, lives in Arcata; his two sisters, Helen Kline and Marion Murphy, live in Eureka where, for many years, Marion worked for Daly’s. Roy Johnson’s widow. Margaret, also still lives In Eureka.

On a Saturday morning in October, just steps from the hubbub of the Arcata Plaza on the corner of 11th and F Streets, the Jardín Sanctuario is humming. A cheerful crowd comprised of gardeners, volunteers, Cal Poly Humboldt students and shoppers from the nearby farmer’s market circulates among terraces glowing with sunflowers, marigolds and tall stalks of heirloom corn. At the top of the slope on the hilly corner lot, a small open-air stage is being used by Indigenous women practicing traditional dances. Conceived as a safe space offering welcome and solace to undocumented members of the Latinx community, the Sanctuary Garden has been maintained since 2021 by members of Centro del Pueblo, a Humboldt organization with offices in Eureka and Arcata and organizers serving communities from Miranda to McKinleyville, dedicated to working for the empowerment of Indigenous Migrant and Latinx communities.

“This is an environment that we love and care for, and it’s been building community since 2021,” Centro del Pueblo Executive Director Brenda Pérez said. “It’s not only about harvesting corn, it’s also about bringing people together and creating an emotional impact.” Doing the work here hasn’t always been easy: in the past, garden caretakers have had to contend with hate crimes and acts of targeted vandalism. But the garden has also elicited an outpouring of support. Today, almost a year has gone by with no incidents, and the placard bearing the garden’s name is larger and more colorful than the one that was previously defaced. More people than ever seem to be turning out on Saturday mornings to learn more about Centro del Pueblo’s work, help tend the garden, or simply admire the sunflowers. I sat down with Pérez at Wildberries on a September morning to talk about Centro del Pueblo’s work with the garden and with the Indigenous Migrant and Latinx Communities.

Due to its visibility, the Sanctuary Garden has introduced many area residents to Centro del Pueblo’s work. But it is only one of several projects that the group is spearheading in the community. Others include a campaign called “Know Your Rights” and “Sister Flower,” a program for women who have survived violence during a migratory journey. This past year, an alliance with Cal Poly Humboldt made it possible for Centro del Pueblo to use video technology for two new projects that connect with migrant people by imparting video editing skills, encouraging them to tell their stories in an audiovisual format. “We started to ask for help after the hate crimes at the garden,” Pérez said. “We reached out to the city, and we reached out to Cal Poly. We were pushing to put our stories out there so that people could see the faces behind the garden, and hopefully feel compassion, and stop the attacks.”

The first of these projects, titled “Echando Raíz in Humboldt County: Stories From Our Latinx and Indigenous Immigrant Community,” uses the Spanish language phrase for “putting down roots” to designate a multigenerational initiative in which workshop participants write their own scripts, select images and music, and present self-made videos about their lives. This initiative was launched by Pérez and by Dr. Cinthya Ammerman Muñoz of the Native American Studies program at Cal Poly Humboldt. “We’ve been creating stories about migration, people and plants, around the Sanctuary Garden, and also telling the stories of the people that grow their own food there. We are trying to bring awareness and compassion toward the migratory process, so that people can learn about these people’s experience from listening to their voices,” Pérez said. “Echando Raíz” was funded in part by a Research and Creative Projects for Equity and Justice Grant from Cal Poly Humboldt. It was supported by equipment loans from the Cal Poly Humboldt Library, with additional support for production provided by the California Arts Council.

A companion project, “Seeds of Hope,” takes the form of a video editing workshop that provides Latinx youth with video editing experience, with a focus on stories about preventing suicide. Through this Latinx Youth Suicide Prevention Program, created by Centro del Pueblo members in collaboration with the Latinx Clubs and Centers of Cal Poly Humboldt, Eureka High School, Arcata High School and Fortuna High School, participants aged 14 to 25 are learning to create bilingual audiovisual content to deliver messages of hope to their peers. Videos produced during the project’s first year were shown on the Cal Poly Humboldt campus this spring in the context of a festival Centro del Pueblo organized; they can currently be accessed on the group’s website. “Our purpose is, with participants’ permission, to bring those migrant stories out in the open and make them part of students’ experience on campus, so that they can reach more people. Particularly in an institutional context, for people to be able to tell their own stories, it was key to create that environment of trust - because Cal Poly is a place that is exclusive and hard to access,” Pérez noted. “I have interviewed women who had been living in Humboldt County for 35, 40 years and had never before been on campus.”

Pérez is originally from Chalchicomula, a small city located in the state of Puebla in central Mexico. She had been one of the original members of Centro del Pueblo, which was founded in Arcata in 2016, before returning to her country of origin. After coming back to Humboldt County in 2017, she got involved with the community once again, becoming the group’s leader and the public face of its organizing. Her repeat migrations mirror the experience of many in this region, she said. “People come and go from Humboldt County; it’s very dynamic in terms of migration and social mobility.”

Experiencing her own migratory journeys has led Pérez to feel deep compassion for the people she works with. “I think every person lives a unique experience in terms of their migratory journeys. But I am able to identify myself with other migrants because of my background - having my family affected, being myself affected. I work to have their trust. It’s all part of being a community organizer, which is a big engagement, and also a big responsibility.” Many members of the community that Centro del Pueblo serves “check all the boxes for being vulnerable… being migrants, being women coming from an Indigenous background, and also being socially isolated” in Humboldt County. “Through organizing, we can overcome that.”

Before coming to the United States, Pérez had worked previously as a community organizer in places including Chiapas and Mexico City, so it felt “natural” to carry those skills and that commitment into her new home. “I found Centro, and I found a place there, and I found the conditions to grow as a person and as an organizer.” She remembered that in 2016, the year she arrived, there had been “a context of polarization and danger, because of the political climate and the elections. There was physical violence. I was new, and I felt insecure. I told myself, okay, as a woman of color, I need to build my safety network. We became part of bigger networks to protect each other, and that has been successful.” The initial goal of Centro del Pueblo’s work with new migrants is often to help create environments where they can feel safe. “We work to overcome that fear. And then, it’s like, okay, let’s be positive. Let’s flourish in a different way. Let’s think in different rhetorics, let’s think in other logics, because we cannot always be reactive; we want to be proactive.”

Being proactive about reaching migrant workers in Humboldt County has meant adopting diverse methods of outreach to connect with people living in remote places, as well as with those working in the cannabis industry. “Because we need to reach people who may be in Southern Humboldt or ‘on the mountain,’ where Internet access is limited, we use the radio; we also create our own magazines. We print out our content, and we distribute it all over the county.” Humboldt’s size, remoteness and rugged terrain pose several challenges, Pérez noted, making it for instance difficult for migrant workers to access legal aid. There are no legal services for immigrants available in Humboldt, Mendocino, or Trinity counties: migrant people in search of legal counsel must travel to Santa Rosa or San Francisco. Centro del Pueblo is currently fundraising to support bringing legal experts in on a regular basis and having their services be free, or subsidized, for low-income families. “We need legal resources urgently, to complement the other services we provide. If we can address that need here, in northern California, I think that will be amazing.”

Centro del Pueblo also works proactively to make change by seeking to remedy a lack of information and education that exists around the United States immigration system, among migrants and native-born residents alike. Group members educate about the steps necessary for becoming a citizen or legal resident, at the same time seeking to provide new immigrants with information about the way the U.S. electoral system works. Often, Pérez said, recent immigrants are unaware that immigration processes and policies in this country can be subject to abrupt and radical change, depending on the outcome of the four-year voting cycle. In 2024 the political climate loomed as a concern once again, as the year-long campaign leading up to the United States presidential election featured strident anti-immigrant rhetoric as a mainstay of Republican messaging.

The election’s outcome means that many of the people Centro del Pueblo serves may face significant new challenges in years to come. But despite the disappointing national result, Pérez said that she and other members of Centro del Pueblo continue to be inspired and encouraged by the sense of goodwill emanating from the local community. “It’s been amazing, it’s been growing, and it’s something that makes us keep working.” Building trust among neighbors from different backgrounds, she said, “has taken that time and effort. But it has been worth it.”

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To learn more about Centro del Pueblo or make a donation to support its work, visit the group’s website at cdpueblo.com.

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When a 7.0 magnitude earthquake struck the North Coast on Thursday morning, staff at the National Tsunami Warning Center (NTWC) in Alaska sprang into action, promptly issuing a tsunami warning for an estimated 5.3 million people in coastal communities across Northern California and southern Oregon. Hundreds – perhaps thousands – of Humboldt County residents fled their homes and offices in a chaotic search for higher ground, which led to gridlocked traffic on Highway 101 in Eureka.

After assessing tsunami forecast models and water levels from offshore buoys for about an hour, the NTWC determined that there was no threat of a tsunami on the West Coast and the warning was canceled at 11:55 a.m.

Humboldt County hasn’t experienced an earthquake of this magnitude since April 25, 1992, when a series of magnitude 7.2, 6.6 and 6.5 earthquakes struck the Cape of Mendocino, destroying dozens of homes in the Mattole and Eel River valleys. However, the magnitude of an earthquake clearly doesn’t always mean it’s more destructive. The 6.4 earthquake that occurred on Dec. 20, 2022, caused far more structural damage than yesterday’s quake, even though it was of a notably smaller magnitude.

[CLARIFICATION: As one of our readers points out in the comment section below, in June 2005, a magnitude 7.0 earthquake struck 80 miles west of Crescent City, prompting evacuations in low-lying areas. However, there were no reports of serious damage.]

In the hours that followed yesterday’s earthquake, some locals took to Facebook and other social media platforms to accuse the National Weather Service, public safety agencies and local media organizations of fear-mongering and blowing the whole thing out of proportion. 

“I was born and raised here,” one person wrote in our Facebook comment section. “I knew that quake was not strong enough to cause a tsunami large enough to cause mass hysteria and panic.”

Ryan Aylward, a warning coordination meteorologist with the National Weather Service (NWS) office in Eureka, disputed the notion that the earthquake wasn’t “strong enough” to cause a tsunami, adding that the Tsunami Warning Center typically issues a tsunami warning following coastal earthquakes of magnitude 6.5 7.0 or greater.

“There was no doubt from anyone here that that earthquake was big enough to cause a tsunami. It wasn’t even a question,” Aylward told the Outpost in a phone interview. “It was a very real threat, and we’re just very thankful that it was a very small tsunami.”

When an earthquake occurs, the good people at the NTWC in Alaska assess the location and magnitude of the earthquake, as well as the region’s history of tsunamis, and decide whether an alert should be issued.

“We have the Cascadia [subduction zone] right off our coast, and we know that in 1992 an earthquake produced a tsunami at the cape there that was three feet,” Aylward said. “In this case, the first indication was that it was a magnitude 7.3 in about the same spot as 1992. So, in those first five minutes, they had to make a decision, and they made the decision to issue a warning because they felt a tsunami could be generated.”

After the tsunami warning was issued at 10:51 a.m., NTWC and NWS staff monitored wave activity from offshore buoys and tidal gauge stations at the North Spit of Humboldt Bay and up in Crescent City but, fortunately, no unusual activity was detected.

“We did detect a nine-centimeter wave in Point Arena in Mendocino County, but that was small enough that the tsunami warning center decided to cancel the warning about an hour later,” Aylward said. “It takes, you know, 10 to 20 minutes for the waves to arrive, and then you have to wait to see.  An hour is about how long it takes to analyze the waves and make a determination.”

The Humboldt County Office of Emergency Services (OES) issued its own tsunami warning about 45 minutes after the national alert. Asked what took so long, Emergency Services Program Manager Ryan Derby told the Outpost that the OES “must contact the appropriate agencies to verify if there is threat of a tsunami before a Humboldt Alert is sent out,” which “can take time.”

Not long after the tsunami warning was lifted, one of ALERTCalifornia’s cameras captured a video, as seen below, of Humboldt Bay appearing to recede, a possible indicator of an incoming tsunami.

“It does look like something happened, but we don’t know what. The folks at the California Geological Survey will be looking into that further, but my first guess is that it’s a seiche,” Aylward said, referring to a standing wave, typically caused by wind, that moves back and forth across a partially or fully enclosed body of water, such as a lake or bay. “We didn’t see anything at the tide gauge … but we really don’t know at this point.”

Asked how he felt about yesterday’s earthquake response, Aylward acknowledged the chaos that ensued on Highway 101 in downtown Eureka and on the Samoa Bridge when traffic was gridlocked and urged people to evacuate on foot.

“Yesterday, we saw lots of people driving and getting stuck in traffic, especially on Samoa Bridge. You don’t want to go through the tsunami zone to get to higher ground,” he said. “Knowing your evacuation route and knowing the closest place to where you live is really important. Someday a big tsunami is going to hit and people need to respond in the correct way and follow their evacuation routes, otherwise, they’ll get stuck in their car in traffic when the waves are arriving.”

And if you’re not in the tsunami zone, don’t evacuate. “If you’re, like, right on the edge of the zone and you’re not feeling comfortable, go ahead,” Aylward added. “But if you’re solidly out of the zone, you don’t have to leave.”

Not sure if your house is located in the tsunami zone? Check out the state’s interactive Tsunami Hazard Area Map – linked here. Additional resources can be found at the Redwood Coast Tsunami Work Group’s website and at ready.gov/earthquakes.

You can also check out this thread on X, formerly known as Twitter, from NWS Bay Area that goes over yesterday’s emergency response.

What did the Eureka city government learn from yesterday’s earthquake and tsunami warning? 

Basically: Too many people hopped into their cars and drove across town, or out of town, choking the roadways, instead of just walking across Fourth Street to safety.

How will the city address this problem?

Still to be determined, but city hall and emergency services are aware of it and are taking the first steps toward a solution.

How did Eureka City Manager Miles Slattery’s years as a teenage punk in San Diego County lead him to cross paths with Sublime, and influence his subsequent karaoke choices?

For that, you’re going to have to listen to the full episode of PICK a SONG, a new feature we’re running with DJ Chuck Rogers and our sister station, KWPT-FM (“The Point”). 

Eureka City Manager Miles Slattery picks a song. Dec. 6, 2024.

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Would you like to Pick a Song and chat about your day with Humboldt County? Drop us a line at news@lostcoastoutpost.com, and put “Pick a Song” in the subject line.

Earlier this morning, our colleague, DJ Chuck Rogers, checked in with Sen. Mike McGuire for a little chat about the Humboldt Holiday Food Drive, which is underway at local high schools, and of which our sister station KHUM (104.7 FM, or online) has long been a proud sponsor.

While they were at it, Rogers and McGuire recapped the response to yesterday’s big earthquake and agreed that it was a good drill, and blessedly not much worse than that.

Check out their conversation below. And don’t forget: The Holiday Food Drive culminating event/party happens Thursday, Dec. 12 from 3 to 6 p.m. at the Eureka Safeway. There’ll be a secret special guest, looks like!

Robin Leanne Kuhnle, a beloved mother, grandmother, sister and friend, passed away with loved ones by her side on November 5, 2024. She was born on October 19, 1948, in Eureka, to Albert Ross Kuhnle and Audrey Lee Kuhnle. She was the cherished sister of Gordon Kuhnle Sr.

Robin’s family history is steeped in rich heritage, with roots tracing back to L.K. Wood, a member of the expedition led by Captain Josiah Gregg that discovered Humboldt Bay in 1849. The Kuhnle lineage also extends to the American Revolution and to Betsy Ross.

Robin graduated from Eureka Senior High School in 1966, where she was an active member of the Loggerettes. She also participated in Frances Baribault’s charm school and was a contestant in the 1967 Miss Humboldt competition. Robin’s formative years were spent with the Winter and Pine families, creating lifelong memories through camping, motorcycle rides, drive-in movies and sleepovers.

A lover of learning, Robin studied French and journalism at College of the Redwoods and Humboldt State University. She married Ed Jarrell in 1973, and together they shared a life until their divorce in 1983.

Robin spent many summers at the family cabin in Willow Creek, where she and her loved ones gathered for camping trips, parties, and thrilling adventures down the Trinity River.

Robin’s generous spirit, quick wit and sense of humor made her a favorite among family and friends. Her love for others was boundless, and she was always ready to lend a hand or offer a laugh.

Though she thought motherhood might not be in her future, her son, Ross, was born on July 12, 1986, and became the light of her life. As a mother, Robin was loving, devoted, and endlessly proud of her son.

In her professional life, Robin worked at Sears before joining the family business, K & M Glass Co., in 1970. She later became vice president and, after her brother Gordon Sr. retired, president, until the company closed its doors in 2015.

Over the years, Robin was an active member of the community, participating in Eureka Main Street, Eureka Heritage Society, the Kinetic Sculpture Races, Quota Club, and chairing the Rutabaga Queen Contest for many years.

In the last 18 years of her life, Robin was blessed with the joy of being a grandmother to her three granddaughters — Fionna, Audrey, and Juliet Kuhnle. Her heart was full as she spent countless hours with them, from the day Fionna was born (a moment she cherished deeply) to weekends spent in Willow Creek, fun shopping trips, breakfasts at the Moose Lodge, and endless sleepovers. Being a grandmother was one of Robin’s greatest joys.

Robin leaves behind her loving son, Ross, and granddaughters Fionna, Audrey and Juliet. She also leaves behind her dear friends and extended family.

Robin is preceded in death by her parents, Ross and Audrey Kuhnle, her brother, Gordon Kuhnle Sr.; her aunt, Phyllis Kuhnle; her uncle and aunt, Stedman and Fay Winter; and her aunt and uncle Bearnice and Edward Kuhnle.

The family extends special thanks to the PACE program, Patricia Gallagher and Jeannie Johnson for their love and care during Robin’s final years. A celebration of Robin’s life will be held at a later date.

Arthur Henry Lange was born on July 14, 1943 to Fred and Lula Lange in Willamina, Oregon and unexpectedly passed away on November 9, 2024, in Eureka.

Art was a true and proud Navy man, entering the services at the young age of 17 years old. Art met Linda and soon they were married on December 5, 1964. Art and Linda traveled a lot across the states. Upon traveling they would often go to Crazy Horse, South Dakota and even make their way to Alaska. They loved attending pow-wows, especially Gathering of the Nations.

Art was an avid hunter, and you could always find him up in the hills Linda. Art had a passion for fishing. He took pride in his boat and was always out in the water. Art also had a love for cars, you could always find him at any car show, traveling all over the states entering car shows. One of his greatest prize possessions was his and Linda’s 1972 Mustang Mach 1, as they won many trophies for that car.

Art had a devotion as an antique collector with an eye for rocks, gold mining, Native American baskets and artwork, valuable Winchester guns and other knick-knacks.

Art started Pacific Northwest Builders, which was his own construction company that he built from the ground up, and worked many years throughout Humboldt County and neighboring counties, Art was always willing to teach and educate anyone and everyone with his knowledge of carpentry. Art was a proud member of the Local Carpenter’s Union Local 751; he worked on several bridges up until his retirement. Arthur was proceeded in death by the love of his life of 57 years Linda Lange.

Art leaves behind his son Terry (Betty) Lange, daughter Diana Morgan, his grandchildren Mathew Lange, Melody Wolff, James (Heather) Holdner, and Alicia Morgan along with several great grandchildren. Art also leaves behind special cousins Pauline, Jason, Jerry among other family members. A special thank you to Wonder Brothers Auto Body for a lifelong friendship.

A life celebration will be held on February 8, 2025, from 2-5 p.m. at the Wiyot Tribe, 1000 Wiyot Dr., Loleta, California (Please bring a dish and memories of Art to share).