East Coast Earthquake

At 10:23 EDT this morning, a 4.8-magnitude earthquake rattled the Northeast. The epicenter was located about 3 miles beneath Lebanon, NJ, about 40 miles outside of New York City. I actually felt the shockwaves 200 miles away in the Boston area, where all the furniture in the office of my upstairs apartment wobbled back and forth for a few seconds. Nothing fell off the shelves, no new cracks appeared in my historic house or neighborhood. I had lived through many of these low-magnitude, shallow earthquakes before, when Oklahoma had a slew of 4.9-and-under magnitude quakes due to unregulated fracking-related activities between 2010 and 2015. But I still find the sensation unnerving and was glad not to feel the 4.0-magnitude aftershock at 18:30 EDT tonight.

Fortunately, the most powerful earthquake to strike the eastern seaboard since 2011 left minimal damage. The region has no major fault lines, which keeps the magnitude of any quakes down, but the dense, hard, ancient rocks of the Appalachian uplift transmit the vibrations farther than in younger geologic areas. Earthquakes can be absolutely terrifying and tragic elsewhere, though, striking suddenly without warning and demolishing cities in mere seconds. Just this week, a much stronger 7.4-magnitude quake left 9 dead and 1000 injured in Taiwan, whose rigorous engineering standards and civic preparedness were successful in limiting structural and economic damage. However, many countries along fault lines are not so well-equipped, as we’ve seen the horrible destruction in Morocco, Türkiye, Haiti, Mexico, Indonesia, New Zealand, and more. As far as natural disasters go, I find earthquakes at least an order of magnitude more worrying than tornadoes or hurricanes, and I am quite grateful to live in the relative safety of New England.

From Trash to Treasure Chest

My Experience Bringing a Pine Box Back From the Dead

A few weeks ago, on the rainiest day of autumn, my neighbors left an intriguing item out on the curb. Upon closer examination under umbrella and flashlight, it was an old trunk marked with the initials E.F.T. (apart from a minor typo on the middle initial, it basically had my name on it). Whether it was a rusted-out rot box or a piece of priceless Americana, I couldn’t tell, but the trunk called out to me all the same. I left it there in the rain for the rest of the evening, checking every hour to see if it had moved, incredulous that someone would choose to throw away this timeworn piece of history. Just before bedtime, I heaved the trunk up to my outdoor balcony, giving the previous owner one more chance to reclaim their lost antique before I transformed it into my own.

However, there was one problem: I may be pretty handy but I’ve never restored anything, historic or just old, furniture or otherwise. The exterior was in pretty bad shape, with extensive rust and some water damage to the wood. But the interior and structural elements looked pretty good! There are a few resources online specifically dedicated to restoring Victorian-era steamer trunks, most from the great state of Maine: I found Brettuns Village to be most informative (and very humorous), and Connie from Connie’s Trunks helped me identify and date my piece as a 1880s steamer trunk from a manufacturer in either Massachusetts or Connecticut. These were an instructive starting point (mostly telling me what not to do), and after several trips to hardware store I was ready to get to work.

The defining challenge of preparing this trunk: how would I remove the thick rust layer without further wearing the historic hardware? First, I drizzled a citric acid mixture over a few square inches of old metal at a time, polishing vigorously with a ball of coarse steel wool. Eventually, I caved and bought a wire brush for my rotary tool, which sped up the process but required hours of focus and precision to remove the rust without scratching the wood. I also bought a rotary sanding kit to clean up the wood, smoothing out the water damage spots and rubbing off most of the blemishes. A little wood filler made the pine boards look uniform and new again. After carefully masking the decorative cast elements, I painted the bare metal stripping with a gloss black enamel, applied with a sponge brush one side at a time. I recolored the wood to a darker, more modern color, applying an oil-based stain with a bristle brush. I sealed the whole thing with a thin coat of polyurethane, finally taking a step back to look at my work:

Before

After

For my first restoration project, I’m pleased with the results! And I think I might be done…I considered adding legs to make a table, or even replacing the wooden lid with a glass top. I ordered a trunk lock from eBay, but this aftermarket hardware appears cheap and flimsy compared to the original parts. The trunk experts instilled in me that less is more when it comes to refurbishment, so no new hardware or flashy metallic paint will be used after all. I may not be on their level, but this was a fun learning experience that I can proudly display in my living room. There’s nothing quite as satisfying as taking on a challenge, putting in time and elbow grease, then seeing the product of your own handiwork. I’ll add any updates here if I do any further work on the chest, or maybe a part 2 if another abandoned antique falls into my lap!

A Whirlwind Decade

On May 20th, 2013, an EF5 tornado hit Moore, Oklahoma, marking the fourth major tornado in 15 years to carve a swath of devastation through the suburban town near Oklahoma City. I was a 21-year-old rising college senior, beginning a research internship developing lithium-ion battery materials and trying to decide what direction to pursue in my career post-graduation. I had recently lived a few months in Joplin, volunteering with the recovery efforts from the deadliest tornado of this century, so I was deeply affected when I heard the news. I spent the next 3 nights sleeplessly reading about tornadoes, their causes and behaviors, their physics of intensification, and why they might take similar paths. On the third night, I had what can only be described as a lightbulb moment, where within minutes my basic governing theory coalesced and I could envision the warm-air pockets rising and rapidly cooling into the rotating low-pressure core. I followed this idea deep into the rabbit hole but was surprised to find very little literature linking topography with tornadogenesis, an unnerving but exciting prospect for a young and passionate STEM student.

Rather than keep my potential discovery close to the vest, I immediately ran the theory by anyone and everyone I knew. Russel and George, scientifically-minded connections I had met in Joplin, corroborated that many Midwesterners believe that tornadoes tend to take certain paths preferentially. I asked several Rice professors across multiple departments – anyone with a background in fluid mechanics, transport phenomena, or atmospheric science – for their input, which refined my then-raw understanding of wind flows over complex terrain. I received perhaps the most impactful advice from my research advisor, Dr. Lisa Biswal, who told me that a truly original discovery is worth pursuing because a scientist may not have another one for their entire career. During a few pivotal meetings, she gave me a roadmap for testing my theories, seeking outside support, and undergoing the arduous but rewarding process of drafting a scientific paper. This advice really meant a lot coming from a young professor who had built a successful lab based upon an open-minded approach, keeping several projects active simultaneously in the hopes of that big, defining breakthrough.

The tornado project would go through several iterations over the next few years. First, I developed a steady-state model of a tornado using Matlab, a 3-dimensional numerical simulation that allowed me to conceptualize the forces present at various points in and around a tornado. Two years later, I enlisted the help of brilliant Vanderbilt undergrad Lily Williams to help me transfer this model into Python and begin to add perturbation conditions. When I left Vanderbilt in 2016, I studied land-surface models intensively and eventually coded one to reflect the steady-state conditions of the pre-storm environment. I attended multiple conferences and presented the work to academics and NOAA scientists, who were broadly impressed by my determination but wanted to see more (read: years of data on predictive efficacy). Seeing that it would be very difficult to accomplish my goals as an independent scientist, I pivoted toward the private sector, testing the entrepreneurial waters at Springfield Startup Weekend and presenting my work to investors. I had planned to launch a web platform that can generate real-time surface heatmaps, a goal that I was pretty close to accomplishing during the first couple months of the COVID lockdown.

When various pressures brought me to Texas in June 2020, the project was abruptly tabled. Over 2 years passed before I had the time to pick up where I left off, and sadly this did not go well. It took me about 200 hours of work to rebuild my Python environment and get the old code running on my new laptop – I was that far behind on package updates and had lost a step when it came to writing code. Many of my former connections had either sold their atmospheric models, moved on to different research pursuits, or retired. I had lost the fiery passion to solve the mystery of why tornadoes take the paths that they do, in part because of my separation from the tragedy of tornadoes and in part because I saw that the lifesaving value of my work would be ultimately limited. Despite this cynical ending, I am proud that I took a major leap and developed the land surface model for tornado simulation – though somewhat sad to lose what had become a major part of my identity. Perhaps the tornado project will take on life again in the future, but for now, I am trying to enjoy the fair weather while finding my professional next steps.

Let’s Go Boating!

I enthusiastically said this when I was 4 years old, misunderstanding my mom when she brought me to the polls as she voted in the 1996 election. As an adult, I try to manufacture this same enthusiasm with every election cycle, reminding myself that my vote counts because of a singular time in 2018 when a House race swung by less than a percentage point (about 3000 votes, but mine was one of them!). Lately it has become easier to be motivated, however: with people on both sides losing faith in our electoral system, I no longer take this extraordinary privilege for granted.

Although I wouldn’t tell anyone who to vote for, I do encourage readers to understand what candidates stand for (individually and within the broader goals of their party) and then participate in voting. I personally was very motivated to vote against Greg Abbott and his Republican enablers here in Texas, for reasons well-outlined by this NYT editorial. While the Democratic Party does not always uphold its values as the inclusive “big tent” it advertises, I appreciate that their candidates at least believe in democratic elections, respect the separation of powers, accept scientific truths, and promote the general welfare over the special interests of select corporations. While I won’t judge anyone for voting a different way than I do, I hope that we can look back soberly on this time period and understand the effects of our electoral choices on our demise, redemption, or whatever the future holds.

Paranormal Observations

In honor of “spooky season,” I want to veer away from the firm scientific footing of this platform for a moment into the unsubstantiated and inexplicable. Paranormal phenomena in nature have been described for centuries, just sporadically enough to elude mainstream acceptance. But they’ve always intrigued me nonetheless, at least in the realm of interesting fiction or fantasy. Like most warm-blooded scientists, I was thoroughly skeptical of paranormal stories, blaming the limits of human observation and intrinsic bias for missing a hidden scientific explanation. Then I witnessed a few implausible events where paranormal explanations suddenly seemed more realistic, events that still provoke my imagination when I think about those nights.

First, while I was volunteering in Joplin, Missouri, I drove outside of town on several occasions to watch for a mysterious phenomenon known as the Spook Light. I had dismissed many of the stories from locals who had seen the Spook Light – many of the tales seemed dramatized, like the guy who was watching with beers in both hands as the glowing orb approached and burned a char mark into the hood of his brand-new 1968 Mustang. But then, on the third night, I glimpsed it: a faint yellow-orange light, clearly not a streetlight or car beam, materialized on the horizon to the west and floated back and forth along a distant treeline. I returned to the same dark road during my next spring break, this time with a carful of friends, and we may have had an even better view. Looking south toward a farmhouse, the same disembodied light materialized and meandered back and forth for about half an hour, hovering a few feet above the dry grass. We watched in wonder, but it was impossible to see what was producing the light or what had extinguished it after the phenomenon had run its course.

A few months later, I was back at Rice University when I had a much closer encounter with something unexplained. I was taking a 5-hour take-home exam in an empty classroom in Keck Hall, the old chemistry building, and I had to take a bathroom break at around 11 pm. When I walked under the domed ceiling of the foyer, I heard a whooshing sound in my ear and paused in my tracks. Looking up into the dome, I retraced my steps and heard the same whooshing sound. The hair on the back of my neck stood up as I walked under a third time; this time the whooshing sound was accompanied by a pressure pop in my right ear. Suddenly very nervous, I called out but found that I was alone in the old building. After simmering down in the bathroom, I steeled myself to walk back across the foyer one final time en route to the classroom. As I passed under the dome, the weight of a child, about 50 pounds but not solid, was imparted onto my shoulders. I flinched downward then ran back to the room, distracted from my exam and everything else for the rest of the evening.

I actively avoided haunted places for a few years, feeling spooked and even a little crazy as I was unable to corroborate my peculiar late-night experience with anyone else. And ghosts avoided me, at least until I made a trip to Bisbee, Arizona, an old mining town with a fraught history. Many of the hotels and Airbnbs advertise being haunted by some tortured spirit or another, so I didn’t pay much mind when booking a room at the Oliver House. It was dark as I made my way up the steep hill to the front veranda around 9 pm, where a blacklight illuminated some patio furniture that was covered in a layer of leaves and dust. I rang the doorbell and waited: no answer. I knocked several times on the wooden door: no answer. I dialed the old boarding house’s telephone number: no answer, just an infinite series of rings. I walked around the rear of the building where a single light was on in what looked like a kitchen – inside, the pale figure of a young woman with a platinum blonde bob appeared to be walking, pausing intermittently. I rapped on the window to get her attention, but the figure continued pacing, her eyes locked forward as she walked in a triangular pattern, around and around. I watched, petrified, for several moments, but the figure was undisturbed, almost gliding as she continued to move in that same triangle. I finally was able to collect myself and ran back to the car, changing my reservation for the Copper Queen Hotel (also allegedly haunted, but no further encounters for us). I stayed awake for several hours, restless with frightful excitement as I replayed the moments in my head, remembering in detail exactly what I had observed.

With each paranormal encounter, there was always a sliver of doubt, a plausible deniability. I was never close enough to the Spook Light to see its composition – my friend Reed saw the same view from the back seat and concluded it must be “some guy holding a flashlight,” though I find it equally implausible that someone would work so hard to create such a grand illusion. No one else has reported a ghost encounter in that old building at Rice, and technically, I didn’t see anything either. Perhaps the whooshing sound was an echo from my loose clothing, and the weight was a reflex from feeling terrified in the moment? Seeing that apparition in the Bisbee hotel was bizarre, and my friend Gold saw it too! But we went to that hotel’s café the next morning, and the barista had similar narrow facial features (though completely different hair and gait), a pretty uncanny coincidence. To this day, I don’t know exactly what I witnessed in any of the three instances, grasping at straws for a scientific explanation but finding more overlap with the unsubstantiated and often fanciful descriptions from paranormal lore. And that’s fine with me, as long as any future encounters with such mysteries are also benign. Anyways, happy Halloween!

Ukraine, and the Woe of Foreign War

After weeks of ominous Russian military buildup, today unfolded as a nightmare scenario in Ukraine, the likes of which we haven’t seen in Europe since WWII. My heart goes out for the Ukrainian people, many of whom have feared such an invasion for years but dismissed its imminence even as citizens of other countries evacuated last week. I didn’t expect a full-scale invasion either, placing misguided faith in Vladimir Putin’s words about a “peacekeeping force” for the Russian-speaking oblasts of Luhansk and Donetsk, maybe even Kharkiv. Evidently, the Ukrainian military was planning for that scenario as well, stationing the majority of their forces in eastern Ukraine to defend a line near Kharkiv while leaving the back door open for a ground invasion of Kyiv. Now, the entire country is under attack from air, land, and sea, as the following places were bombed during just the first day:

Bombing reports from 2/24/22, killing dozens of Ukrainian civilians at key infrastructure sites across the country (Source: BNO)

It can be hard to understand or fathom what is going on right now. Trying to see a balanced picture, I have read international news outlets and now follow a number of Ukrainian reporters on Twitter. Ukrainians generally feel abandoned by the West, cultivating a hope for democratic acceptance into European treaties but ultimately being used as a buffer against Russian aggression. Nevertheless, the Ukrainian people are determined to fight – conscripted even, as Ukrainian men aged 18-60 are forbidden from leaving the country under the declared martial law. Russians are generally against the invasion as well, knowing that protracted conflict will lead to Russian deaths and economic discomfort. One aspect that gives me hope is that many Russian officials are uniting to condemn the war, and I retain a small amount of hope that Putin’s reckless actions can somehow be curtailed.

Living in a post-Cold War era, a territorial invasion like this seemed like an improbable outcome – after all, the power players in this ‘new world order’ appeared content to not disrupt the economic prosperity that comes along with peace. It was naïve to think that this would continue without any geopolitical reshuffling, that sanctions and penalties would be a suitable deterrent to malevolently ambitious regimes. In hindsight, we should not have allowed Russia and China to drift closer together, and we should have projected a firmer stance against the autocrats that threaten world peace (or at the very least, not had a former president praise these men for being ‘strong, savvy leaders’). This is a crucial moment for the United States and our European allies, whether we can come together as leaders in peacekeeping and restore the legitimacy of international law, even in this climate with limited appetite for sending soldiers into active combat halfway around the world. I can’t predict how the coming weeks will play out, but today marks the beginning of a darker era for diplomacy.

Battlefield, America

As the COVID-19 pandemic and contentious election season gradually wind down, it’s clear that we have a problem with unity in the United States. The term “Two Americas” has been floating around, describing our stark political divide or our regional gaps in COVID-19 vaccination (though I resonate more with Martin Luther King’s still-relevant use of the term to describe the economic realities of haves versus have-nots). On one side of the divide, there is a general sense of trust that government is not malevolent and that vaccines are safe, effective, and necessary. On the other side, a deep distrust is metastasizing: the last election cycle was illegitimate, the courts are unfair, the pandemic is a political issue, and the vaccine is a plot by big pharma to….control the masses or something. The Delta variant is spreading rapidly among the unvaccinated, who happen to be concentrated in this conservative side of America where even after a year and a half, the public is not well-informed about the dangers of and mitigation strategies against COVID-19. At the epicenter, my former home of Springfield, Missouri made headlines (including this poignant article from The Atlantic) as cases and hospitalizations exploded to levels not seen since the pandemic began, a heartbreaking condition that begs the question, “Why is this happening here?”

I lived for two years in the Springfield area (near a town named Battlefield for its Civil War past), and a unique small-world feeling exists there that makes things that happen in the outside world seem less relevant. Geographically isolated, Springfield is a 3 hour drive from both Kansas City and St. Louis, 2.5 hours from Tulsa, and 2 hours from the Bentonville-Rogers-Fayetteville area of northwest Arkansas. Political power is localized in Springfield, with smaller cities Joplin and Branson falling into its area code 417 orbit. There might be half a million people living in southwest Missouri, and the people who rise to the top have a sort of infallibility as Ozark elites. Johnny Morris, founder of Bass Pro Shops, has built a bona fide empire in the area, developing attractions like the Wonders of Wildlife Aquarium, Big Cedar Lodge, Dogwood Canyon Nature Park, and Top of the Rock golf resort that all bear his name. A number of other entrepreneurs/benefactors have achieved near-godlike status in the area, such as the O’Reilly family (of O’Reilly Auto Parts fortune), Jack Gentry (Positronic), Jack Stack (SRC Holdings), Bill Austin (Starkey Technologies), and David Glass (Walmart, Kansas City Royals). Much like the Walton family holds incredible power in northwest Arkansas, Springfield’s business elites have an outsized influence on local and regional happenings.

This influence trickles over into politics and public opinion. Anyone who’s anyone in the community attends James River Church, which espouses a Christian denomination best described as “capitalist evangelical.” Occupying an influential role in a city already isolated from outside politics, the church has promoted positions from conservative to just wacky. The church has stood vocally against any COVID restrictions – masks, shutdowns, virtual schooling, vaccine mandates – subverting the civic institutions that were simply trying to follow public health guidelines from federal and state agencies. The church has also supported the false narrative that the 2020 election was stolen, delegitimizing government in a locale that already has somewhat of distaste for outside authority. Anger is running at an all-time high, exemplified by the aggression of COVID patients against healthcare workers (this was already an issue for my Filipino nurse friends but only increased with this deadly ‘hoax’ virus). While Springfield might provide the perfect combination of low vaccination rates and lax public health measures for COVID to wreak havoc, I predict that the Delta variant will have a similar adverse affect on other conservative, anti-establishment leaning places like Texas – though I certainly hope that I am wrong.

Can places like Springfield be brought back into the fold as the nation moves beyond the 2020 election and pandemic? Open dialogue and data-driven decision-making may be increasingly liberal ideals, but I still believe that even the most conservative folks are open to accepting new information if it can help restore the stability that practically everyone wants. Healthy skepticism is a central tenet of people in Missouri, nicknamed the “Show-Me State” because “frothy eloquence neither convinces nor satisfies” its conservative citizenry. But I hope this open dialogue happens, not least because the Springfield area has a lot going for it. Springfield has the lowest cost of living of any metropolitan area over 100,000 people, making it an excellent place to start a family or a business. Between Springfield and nearby Branson, there’s a full slate of attractions, two regional airports, and fun outdoor activities – without the crowds of Texas or the coasts. Most importantly, the people that I met in Springfield have some of the most generous hearts; for example, when the Joplin tornado hit in 2011, Springfield came together with an outpouring of donated resources and volunteers that outlasted the FEMA response and solidified the Convoy of Hope as a major nonprofit presence worldwide. For these people, who took me in as a young volunteer then later as a new community member, I sincerely hope for a swift end to the pandemic and a return to civility for a more unified future.

Fall

This morning at 9:30 AM EDT was the official beginning of fall, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. In my spot on the globe, it rained continuously for the third straight day due to tropical storm Beta. Once the entire alphabet has been used, Atlantic tropical storms are named after Greek letters. This is the earliest we have reached Greek letter territory by over a week, and we are on pace to smash the record for number of Atlantic tropical storms set in 2005. It has been a long summer for everyone, I suppose.

I’m behind on blog posts, but I plan to chronicle my long summer in the coming weeks. I left Oklahoma during the first week of June, setting out for the wild west of hand sanitizer manufacturing in Junction, Texas. After an intense, all-consuming 5 weeks of work, I departed toward the Mexican border, where I lost my first car to a reckless driver in the cruel desert. I soon accepted my current job as a design engineer for another sanitizing products plant in Hallettsville, Texas, a unique position to assume in another unique place. It’s been a challenging time, adjusting to a new industry in a new place in the “new normal.” During such a transient time, I have also observed the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic from a wide range of vantage points, from essential worker to traveling job interviewee to hand sanitizer engineer to rural testing patient.

There’s the teaser, now it’s time to write. With a new apartment, new computer, and a fall that promises to be less frenetic, I have no excuse. So stay tuned for some stories!

25 Years Later, Scars and Regrowth

Today, amidst the coronavirus crisis and another severe weather outbreak, I find it important to remember that 25 years ago, at 9:02 am, a blast shook the very foundations of Oklahoma City and the entire nation. The bombing of our downtown federal building claimed 168 lives, altered thousands of others, and permanently implanted the memories of grief and loss into the minds of Oklahomans. As a transplant to the state years later, I immediately gained an empathy for the city’s grief, from visiting the national memorial on my first day here to discussing the tragedy many times in school. I met friends whose families were survivors: courageous firefighters, first responders, and innocent bystanders. I felt the full range of emotions – from fear to anger to grief to hope – during annual remembrances, the memorial marathon, and visits to the reflecting pool and the memorial museum. Though I was only 3 years old during the attack, I absorbed the collective psyche of the city as it navigated a long and complicated recovery.

Although it’s unfortunate that there will be no city-wide remembrance ceremony today, no marathon to bring tens of thousands of people together downtown, the impact of the bombing’s aftermath is widely felt, whether we regularly acknowledge it or not. The grief bonded Oklahoma City, engendering a sense of ownership in the community that is partially responsible for the city’s remarkable renaissance. The Survivor Tree, a sturdy elm that weathered the fiery explosion, remains the city’s strongest symbol, a fitting testament to recovery and growth. The community has a resilient attitude, willing to do whatever is necessary to help one another in the face of hardship…a huge advantage in the present climate. During my sporadic outings over the last month, I’ve seen unanimous participation in social distancing, without enforcement, along with an uptick in helpfulness from store employees and others. Perhaps it’s the steady leadership from Mayor Holt and from healthcare professionals like my dad, but I believe the community also deserves credit for a less chaotic, more compassionate response to COVID-19 than many other places. If there’s any silver lining, I’ve often noticed that tragedies and hardships make a community stronger, and when this is over I hope that we might feel a stronger sense of community nationwide.

Traveling amid COVID-19

Well, here we are. I’m back in Oklahoma, and the world is very different now. I’ve been in self-quarantine for about 5 days, sleeping, eating, and working from home. There is a remote chance that I was exposed to the virus during the last week of my trip, so strict isolation is the appropriate response, for others’ sake. First, a tour guide at Kualoa Ranch on Oahu began experiencing symptoms and submitted for a COVID-19 test last Wednesday. My cousin and I toured the ranch last Thursday. The positive test result only came back on Sunday night (Hawaii sends their sample kits to the mainland for confirmation), marking the first community transmission in the state. It is unlikely that we encountered the virus here: the contagious tourist was long gone, the infected tour guide stayed home, and the ranch is enormous. But during the week or so between the first transmission and the positive test, I continued visiting restaurants, museums, and bars in Honolulu, which is disconcerting, even with the extra hand-washing.

From a risk modelling perspective, the delayed onset of symptoms – and the consequent delay of information – is the defining challenge in tracing the viral spread. The number of confirmed cases can only be used as an indicator, not least because some cases inevitably go untested. Where we have no data, the instinct of the analyst is to estimate. Oahu hosts tens of thousands of tourists every week, but there was no chain reaction of infections on Kualoa Ranch or in Waikiki. An asymptomatic transmission, presumably rare. It boosted Hawaii’s count to 8, but that data reflects only reported illness cases from 5 days ago. Extrapolating with the exponential growth rate and the assumptions that 20% of cases are asymptomatic and 50% go untested, there were likely 20-30 COVID-positive people in the state at the time of my departure, the majority oblivious to their condition.

In the spirit of present news reflecting the reality of 5-7 days ago, I’ll tell you about my experience flying home on Monday-Tuesday. The airport atmosphere was noticeably tenser than usual, even in Honolulu with its pleasant open-air terminals. The line for security was long, but only because most passengers were standing 6 feet apart from one another. Unfortunately, the social distancing broke down before I even boarded the plane. About 20% of people seemed unperturbed by the inherent risk of the situation, including the girl behind me who crowded my bubble from the ticket queue all the way to our seats. And the rest of the passengers seemed resigned to the fact that distancing would be impossible on a full flight. As far as I could tell, I was the only one to disinfect my seat and tray table before sitting down, and I was among a minority wearing a mask. All in all, I came in direct contact with about 5-8 people, most of whom appeared oblivious or nonchalant about the heightened risk of exposure. Multiplying my risk by the number of people I encountered while traveling, I calculated my risk to be that of encountering any of about 100-200 people out of about 500,000 – about the same odds of running into someone I know in Oklahoma City. Over the span of a week, that’s not an incredibly likely occurrence but certainly can’t be ruled out.

There may be some who think my response is excessively paranoid. The truth is, it’s scary to do the math on how many people we are susceptible to catching a virus from or spreading a virus to. That’s why social distancing is so important for everyone, why self-imposed quarantines are so important for those with known contact with an infected individual. Even with the delayed symptoms, if everyone cut off their social connections for 14 days, the virus would run out of people to infect. No need for panicking or hoarding, but everyone would need to participate. China has only a couple of isolated new cases per day because they mandated a state-wide quarantine. While that level of disruption may not be permissible here in the United States, we should do our best to follow CDC recommendations, to at least flatten the curve if we can’t scale it down entirely. Our neighbors who are elderly, have preexisting medical conditions, or work in the healthcare field depend on it with their lives.

Edit, March 2021: Most of this post is irrelevant conjecture from before the airborne transmission dynamics were understood; heck, the general public wasn’t even instructed to wear masks until early April. But I’m leaving it up as a window to a fascinating and scary time to be alive.