She has plenty of company. In the Oakland hills scorched by fire in 1991, on the South Carolina islands ravaged by hurricane in 1989, on the fault line of the earthquake that jolted San Francisco in 1989, most survivors have simply stayed put, rebuilding the same houses or even grander ones. They de so for lots of reasons, ranging from sentiment to financial necessity. But the strongest motivation may be what psychologists call denial. People generally don’t like to think about painful subjects like childhood abuse or their own deaths–nor, from an evolutionary point of view, should they. “In order to survive in the world without being afraid all the time, people walk around with a lot of self-deception,” says Michael Greenwald, a Los Angeles psychologist. Even a person who’s survived disaster can rationalize courting the same danger, by saying it couldn’t happen to him twice. Dr. Roderic Gorney, of the UCLA Neuropsychiatric Institute, has seen people exhibit counterphobic behavior–like scuba diving because they’re afraid of drowning. One of Gorney’s patients, a man whose son was injured and whose house was demolished in the 1989 earthquake, rebuilt on a fault line as a way of “thumbing his nose at the infinite powers arrayed against him.”
Some people rebuild in disaster-prone areas because their roots are there. ironically, the 1991 Oakland fire strengthened Alfred Lee’s ties to the place. “I don’t advocate a disaster for everybody, but you end up meeting a lot of people,” says Lee, a community organizer. Fellow fire survivor Tom Petrie wanted to take advantage of his insurance policy–worth the full market value ($295,000) of his old home. Instead of moving elsewhere he, too, built out of a “sense of obligation to the neighborhood.” But remaining could prove risky. Narrow roads were one reason firefighters had trouble dousing the flames. But because of budgetary problems, the city dropped a post-fire mandate to widen them.
In Florida, sentiment may play a smaller role than it does in other places. Floridians tend to view houses a little like cars, to be cashed in periodically for newer models. Newspapers even run ads for “used houses.” Still, some common sense prevails. With a 1-in-4 chance that a hurricane will hit south Florida in any given year, Dade County has tightened building codes. Insurance companies hope to offer discounts to homeowners with storm shutters-the single most important way to prevent damage. But disaster experts express dismay that a mere 50 miles away, developers are still using the cheap particle board that fell apart under Andrew’s force, and buyers are still making their down payments. “Everybody wants a house for $100,000 with a two-car garage and a Jacuzzi,” says Kate Hale, emergency-services director for Dade County. “Who wants to spend $3,000 on things you can’t even see?”
Were people really meant to occupy strands of sand in the ocean? For many longtime residents of Sullivans Island, S.C., the answer appears to be yes. Hurricane Hugo in 1989 wrecked most of the island’s small Victorian homes. Since then, some beach lovers have rebuilt–bigger but not necessarily better. Julie Britt, a longtime islander, calls the grand new houses “monuments to successful insurance contracts.” Now, says shoreline specialist Orrin Pilkey, “we have more valuable property to be damaged in the next storm. If that isn’t madness, what is?”
Still, nature has a powerful allure. Many beautiful places he in harm’s way. Lots of Californians seem to think they might as well wait for the Big One in the climatic and scenic splendor of their state. “The sad fact is that no matter where you live, you’re going to have to deal with some sort of natural disaster,” says Sue Meyers, 24, who lived through the 1989 Loma Prieta temblor. “It doesn’t seem imperative to leave earthquake country for hurricane country.” Like other major life decisions, the choice of a place to call home may ultimately belong to the heart, not the head.
