Thirty years ago, the 6.7 Northridge earthquake slammed Southern California at 4:30 a.m. on January 17, 1994, killing 60 people and injuring 8,000 while toppling down dozens of buildings and even a crucial crossing over the 10 freeway.

It felt like a steam locomotive was barreling through my bedroom as the walls shook like pieces of paper in a windstorm, and the sounds of the earth rumbling and of things breaking as they were thrown to the floor were deafening.

Since most people were asleep at that hour, it took a few seconds to realize just what the heck was going on. Was there a war? Had we just been bombed? 

It seemed to last an eternity, but it actually only lasted 20 seconds.

I lived on the ninth floor of an apartment building in the LA city of West Hollywood. Once we realized we were still alive, my girlfriend, now wife, and I went on to the porch and saw that the entire Los Angeles skyline was dark -- except for numerous fires and the recurring, booming, scary green transformer explosions across the city. Dust clouds hung in the sky, thrown up by the shaking and the ensuing destruction of buildings.

It was the most dystopian scene I have ever witnessed.

We filled the bathtub, then quickly grabbed the dog and hit the stairway because terrifying aftershocks were hitting regularly and the building was swaying like a boat in choppy seas.

The next day, I went out to see the damage for myself, and it was extensive. Here I check out the site of the collapse of the 10 Freeway near Fairfax Avenue. I had black and white film in the camera, so that's what we had to go with:

That dawn jolt and the following few days are seared into my memory forever, and I now instinctually sleep with my clothes and shoes right next to the bed, and of course, there's a flashlight on the nightstand, and we keep extra water on hand.

But as terrifying as the ordeal was, it may have led to my wife and I getting married. We were a young couple, hadn't even been together that long, and I don't think either of us was yet thinking long-term. But two things happened.

One, as the massive wave hit, I instinctually covered her even though I was half-asleep and had no idea what was going on. The mirrored doors of my closet were thrashing around in their frames and it quickly became apparent that they would shatter (which they eventually did).

Now, I'm not claiming I'm some grand hero here -- many other people would have done the exact same thing. And let's be real, if the building had fallen, my protective efforts would have done exactly squat.

But the symbolism mattered, I think, and by riding out the quake and its aftermath together, we became closer. Which brings me to reason number two: we realized our mortality that night, and that we are on a time-clock in this thing called life. We went to sleep two happy-go-lucky young people not really thinking deeply about the future, but over the next few days we became a pair who had a deeper sense of reality and togetherness.

As the sun came up the next day, dust shrouded the horizon:

We never really spoke about these things, we just felt them, and it wasn't that much long after that I got to my knees at the bottom of the ocean (we were scuba-diving) and got down on one knee. 

I figured she'd either say yes or drown. I was hoping for the former. 

Northridge will be with me forever, and I like many Californians still startle when a big truck goes by -- we're always thinking, is it happening again? There have been a few quakes since that fateful day, but thankfully, nothing even has come to shaking our world as that one did. It was indescribable, frankly.

I know that my wife and I were lucky, but others weren't so fortunate, and that many suffered from the temblor. My heart goes out to them.

The 30th anniversary also reminds me that after all this time, I better make sure I haven't gotten lazy. Time to check the go-bag, resupply, and make sure we're as ready as we can be should history repeat itself. 

Which, of course, it will -- the only question is when.