by Editor’s note: Catherine Fulton is a Canadian journalist and editor-in-chief of The Reykjavik Grapevine. He lives in Reykjavík with his Icelandic partner and their two children. The opinions expressed in this comment are his own. Read more CNN Opinion.
I remember the first time I experienced an earthquake in Iceland. I ran towards the nearest doorframe; That’s what you’re supposed to do, right? – under the sloping ceilings of my penthouse in one of Reykjavík’s iconic bárujárn houses.
I remember being painfully aware of my fate should the old wood frame and corrugated iron siding decide to simply give way.
The shaking ended in seconds, but my knees shook and my heart raced a little faster.
I remember the first time I saw an active volcano. It was the eruption of Fimmvörðuháls in March 2010; the precursor to the infamous Eyjafjallajökull eruption that began just a month later, spewing ash and memes over its unpronounceable name in equal measure.
In what seems like a dream to remember now, I donned a snowsuit, boots, balaclava and helmet and rode a snowmobile over the crunchy, crackling, cracked surface of the Sólheimajökull glacier as the sun set to witness a fissure spewing glowing fountains of liquid magma rose into the air, while a waterfall of lava cascaded down the soot-black side of the newly formed crater.
The place where he was was magnificently multi-sensory. The glow of lava against the night sky, the heat waves of the eruption providing intermittent respite from the paralyzing cold above the glacier, the sound of the earth shaking. That sound remains the most vivid memory: the sound of the Earth’s pulse.
Such noticeable reminders of the tectonic plates moving beneath me were not something I was used to. Growing up in the suburbs not far from Toronto, earthquakes and volcanoes were phenomena I saw on my television screen or described in the pages of old issues of National Geographic.
The closest thing to an earthquake in my house would have been the result of slamming my bedroom door with too much teenage angst.
It wasn’t until I moved to Iceland in March 2009, drawn by the opportunity to witness and report on a nation emerging from an economic implosion, that I came to understand and appreciate the explosive qualities of the world.
It’s easy to appreciate the physical beauty of Iceland. With its lack of dense tree cover and expanses of sometimes arid and sometimes moss-covered lava fields, it has been described as “otherworldly” to an almost clichéd degree.
But curious visitors soon learn that Icelandic nature must be respected, not only for its preservation, but also for their own safety.
It’s something all Icelanders know. Your country is beautiful, but there is always the possibility of danger.
Icelanders have been reminded of this now as residents of Grindavík – a small town 50 kilometers from Reykjavík on the southern coast of the Reykjanes Peninsula – are staying with friends and family, and in Red Cross emergency shelters in the whole country. Although most of the country is safe, a large swath of this peninsula has been evacuated as the Icelandic Meteorological Office continues to predict that an eruption is imminent.
Perhaps it is the Icelandic understanding that “that’s the way things are” that made the people of Grindavík stay still when the ground began to shake not far from their homes in recent years.
The peninsula entered a new volcanic cycle in 2019, with an increase in earthquakes and a measurable rise in soil around the Fagradalsfjall volcano culminating in an eruption in March 2021. The cycle of near-constant earthquakes presaged an eruption near Fagradalsfjall It was repeated in July 2022 and again in July 2023.
News reports during those seismic and eruptive periods characterized the earthquakes as an inconvenience to nearby Grindavík, nearby but far enough from the epicenter of the volcanic action to be out of danger. The trio of eruptions in as many years were promoted as “tourist eruptions”: far from infrastructure and safe to see if you were up for a 10km hike.
We could also feel the biggest earthquakes here in Reykjavík. Now, in a stronger concrete house, I can hear approaching shock waves like those of a big truck speeding down the street before slamming into the building with a lurch and continuing to roll.
The 140,000 of us who live in the capital experienced the latest activity on the Reykjanes Peninsula in the same way. Occasional shaking or crashing.
But the most recent burst of seismic activity that began on October 25 was different for the people of Grindavík. Instead of outlandish news about residents taking anti-sickness pills to cope with the ever-moving Earth, the epicenter had moved beneath the city, described by one resident to The Reykjavík Grapevine as a “monster under their feet.”
That monster was restless and caused tens of thousands of earthquakes before finally throwing a tantrum on November 10 that repeatedly ripped the ground out from under people’s feet. That same night, late at night, the evacuation of Grindavík’s 3,700 residents was ordered.
The monster had excavated a 15-kilometer lava tunnel that extended beneath the city.
Nobody is in danger now. While the earthquakes have subsided somewhat (we haven’t felt them in the capital since the swarms of November 10), the explosive nature of this plate tectonic country and its potential impact on humans have come to the fore.
Not since the Westman Islands woke up with an eruption in their backyard in 1973 has an entire city been evacuated. Now everyone waits, watches and wonders if the residents of Grindavík will ever return home. Will they even want to do it?
I remember my first volcano. I don’t want the memory of someone who destroyed people’s homes.
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