Today was an interesting day — long, meaningful, and strangely beautiful. Three sites, three different faces of the same earthquake.
Morrocoy Bridge – 4 PM
Morrocoy Bridge – 4 PM We reached the bridge in the late afternoon after three hours of a bumpy ride from Caracas. The road felt endless, but the landscape was stunning — green rugged hills, small towns, people waving as we passed. When we finally arrived, the Tucacas mayor and his engineers met us at a small local restaurant to plan for the visit. They were warm and welcoming to our small team, a mix of international and local engineers. We shared a simple but wonderful local seafood meal, and their hospitality reminded me again how kind people are here, even in the middle of crisis.
After lunch, we headed to the shut‑down bridge. The sun was still strong, lighting up the water below with a golden‑blue glow. At first glance, the bridge looked almost untouched, standing quietly. But once our team boated underneath, the truth revealed itself. The bearing damage at the precast beams was clear — seats cracked and shifted, the support conditions compromised. It was not catastrophic, but fragile. And we were starting to see a lot of rust. Years of neglect have caused significant rebar deterioration inside the concrete.
I felt a strange mix of relief and responsibility. Relief that the bridge didn’t fail. Responsibility because thousands depend on it every day — cars, buses, fishermen heading home. The mayor wants it reopened quickly, and I understand that urgency. But standing there at 4 PM, looking at those damaged bearings, I felt the weight of making the right call. Steel shoring will stabilize the bridge from the earthquake damage and bring it back to at least its pre‑event capacity, but the long‑term deterioration must be addressed.
We explained our recommendations and the path forward. As I spoke, I saw relief in the mayor’s eyes — a quiet confidence that we could help them move toward safety again.
Boca de Aroa – 7 PM
Boca de Aroa – 7 PM We arrived just as the sky turned orange. The ocean breeze carried the smell of salt, and the orange‑purple sunset light made the whole village glow. Boca de Aroa is a fishing community — simple homes, one and two stories, confined masonry walls, wood roofs. Informal construction, but full of life. A few thousand people live here. Children ran everywhere, laughing and chasing each other, even among the concrete debris.
But the destruction was significant. About sixty homes were demolished. We found evidence of liquefaction everywhere — sand boils, tilted houses, floors sunk into the earth.
People gathered around us. They lost a lot, but they were full of energy. Fishermen with sun‑burned faces, women holding children, elders sitting quietly but watching everything with sharp eyes. They told us they don’t want to leave. This land is their life. The sea is their work. Their identity is tied to this coastline and location. Even with the ground shifting beneath them, they want to stay.
The mayor asked if everyone needed to be evacuated. I told him no. There are parts of Japan — Niigata — that liquefy almost every ten years, and people still live there. The key is building correctly. Construction can adapt to the soil, not fight it.
The villagers want their homes and lifestyle back. We know that proper confined masonry and using a mat foundation will solve many of the issues when the next earthquake comes. The mayor and his team listened carefully as we explained, nodding, asking questions. Their hope was quiet but strong.
Walking through the village at 7 PM, hearing the waves in the background, I felt a sense of shared purpose. They’re a community trying to survive with dignity. And we have a role to play.
La Mar Suites – 8 PM
La Mar Suites – 8 PM By early evening we were at La Mar Suites. Tower A, a mid‑rise hotel, was collapsed — a pile of broken concrete, twisted rebar, and scattered personal items. Twelve people died here. The debris told the story clearly: nonductile concrete, poor detailing, no confinement. The mayor told us that there were steel braces at the ground floor, but they were removed years ago. Decisions made casually, maybe for convenience, maybe for cost. And today, people paid for it.
Tower B stood next to the ruins like a survivor. We walked into the first‑floor parking area and saw steel braces everywhere. At first I thought it was temporary shoring, but looking closely, it was seismic strengthening someone had done years ago. The mayor asked if he needed to take down this building. I said no. There is no apparent structural damage except some spalling here and there. They just need to replace these old braces with the latest energy‑dissipation devices. Technically, they can make this structure better than it was before.
I kept thinking about the families who lived there — their rooms, their routines, their quiet evenings. All erased in 30 seconds. We drove away as the night came on.
