Spill Reminds Us of Chance’s Big Role in Life

A flock of mallards soared gracefully out of the morning sky and landed on the darkly glistening lake. The lake was actually five acres of oil that had gushed from a ruptured asphalt storage tank.

The scene was Valdez the day after the Great Alaska Earthquake of 1964. As the earth shook, the city’s dock sank into Prince William Sound, entombing 31 people who had been watching the freighter S.S. Chena come in to unload.

Valdez was built on alluvial soil. As a result, the 8.3-magnitude quake triggered a landslide that devoured the town’s immediate shoreline and almost capsized the freighter. Some crewmen aboard the ship were crushed when one-ton rolls of newsprint tore loose in the hold.

A group of us flew south from Fairbanks to inspect the scene and offer aid. As we began the descent through Keystone Canyon, the pilot noted that we would be the first propjet flight into Valdez--the “Little Switzerland of Alaska.” We gripped our Bloody Marys and gazed out at the spruce-studded granite walls of the canyon, surprisingly close.

Once in town, we toured the damaged area. Talks were held that eventually led to a low-interest loan for a new seafood plant. After the quake, the town relocated itself to safer geology across the bay--where the Indians settled the village in the first place.

But lingering with us was the mental picture of the mallard ducks--green, shiny and motionless on the flat black lake.

Nothing in nature prepared the mallards for this eventuality.

The Huntington Beach tanker spill revives the 1964 mallard tableaux, not so much because of waterfowl harm as for this question: What in man’s planning prepared him for a ship rupturing itself on its own anchor? Did the oil industry envision such a scenario?

One answer is that chance governs much of life. We’ll never be ready for all eventualities. The 1969 mud avalanche in Orange County’s Silverado Canyon could have happened on an uninhabited slope, but instead it rushed down onto a fire station jammed with people seeking safety--killing five.

Chance is more recognizable than divine authority. If there were a guiding god, why did the devout Job suffer; why do churchgoers get mowed down by drunk drivers; in the novel, why were those particular people on the bridge at San Luis Rey when it fell?

Why did the oil slick drift to the Bolsa Chica wetlands instead of following the prevailing littoral currents downcoast to Laguna Beach?

The other day a hummingbird inadvertently zipped through French doors into my bedroom. It flew to the window and kept bouncing off the glass, craving to escape. Nothing in its genetic nature prepared the valiant bird to deal with a pane of glass.

But at least it hadn’t crashed into the pane at 30 m.p.h. from the outside, as some do. Fortunately, the window was dirty.

Suddenly the hummingbird’s partner appeared on the outside of the window. Perplexed, they hovered in space two feet apart, so near, yet so far. I raced for my camera to shoot the contest-winning photo. But then the outside hummingbird was gone. The indoor bird I took in cupped hands and released to the sea breeze. For some, there are chance happy endings.

Dave Galloway is a Times news editor.