Library history contains numerous accounts of disasters, from the destruction of the Alexandrian Library in the third and fourth centuries AD to the loss of millions of volumes throughout Europe during World War II. Every year, dozens of libraries lose part or all of their collections owing to fires and floods. These risks have prevailed since ancient times, along with earthquakes, severe storms, war damage, and sabotage. There is no reason to believe that the world will become any safer for libraries in future. In fact, with our increasing dependence on electronic media that are even more vulnerable than printed materials, it is possible that libraries will sustain serious losses more frequently.

None of this will surprise scholars and librarians who understand that the study of any corpus of writings is essentially the examination of what has survived over time and spite of dire circumstances. For example, when we take a course on Sophocles (496–406 BC), we are able to read only seven of his tragedies and a few miscellaneous fragments of his other works—a small part of an oeuvre that once comprised more than 120 plays. What has happened to the rest? Like most classical literature, it has vanished during one calamity or another at some point in the distant past. In light of the long list of risks that manuscripts are prey to, it is remarkable that any ancient literature has survived at all.

While nothing lasts forever and the eventual loss of library materials is unavoidable, at least there are methods to retard the process of decay and allow collections a longer lifespan. My career as a disaster planner is the direct result of my fascination for those methods that enable us to preserve our vital information and cultural heritage. To put it simply, as a library disaster planner, I am an idealist with an interest in hazardous plumbing.

I came to librarianship with a background in anthropology that included studies in archeology and Egyptology. At one time I considered a career as an Egyptologist, but was deterred by the thought of the enormous commitment necessary for what might have been exceedingly small returns. After all, there are very few jobs for specialists in hieroglyphics, and I have yet to see a classified ad for an expert in antique funerary practices. But to this day, I am delighted to read anything concerning Egyptian writing and literature, and am struck by the irony of the fact that the texts carved into the walls of the pyramids have a better chance of surviving longer in physical form and human memory than the books listed in my local newspaper’s bestseller list.

Something else that lured me away from Ancient Egypt was the study of rare books and bibliography. When I learned that I could devote much of my time to these and related topics at the University of British Columbia School of Librarianship (as it was known in those days), I sent in an application. Two years later, I graduated with the usual degree and the usual crushing debt from student loans. Here luck intervened, and I found two part-time jobs that gave me an opportunity to learn the rudiments of disaster planning, as well as to earn a living.

First, I found myself in charge of the library at Thurber Engineering Ltd. in Vancouver, BC. Thurber specializes in the investigation of natural hazards, such as earthquakes, landslides, and avalanches. In the late 1980s, the company formed a subsidiary that deals with environmental hazards, including toxic spills and marine pollution. Among my duties were the development and updation of the collection to reflect advances in all areas of hazard research. As would be true for any librarian in my position, I became familiar with the terminology and general subject areas of hazard evaluation and management. Above all, I became aware of various methods of risk assessment which, in slightly modified forms, I use in my current projects.

Aside from my job at Thurber, I took on the role of consulting librarian, archivist, and records manager at Seaboard Life Insurance, which had offices across Canada. My main job was to devise survival strategies for Seaboard’s archival collection and vital records. Eventually I became involved in the company’s microfilm conversion program, an ambitious project that, when completed, guaranteed the long-term survival of millions of important documents. Each individual paper document was flattened, unstapled, filmed, indexed online, and finally recycled. In the event that Seaboard’s head office in Vancouver is destroyed, its vital records will survive in microfilm stored in secure off-site vaults. Using the microfilm collections, Seaboard staff will be able to resume basic business operations within 72 hours.

In 1985, with a moderate amount of experience and technical knowledge, I started to work on disaster planning and security projects for special libraries. These projects usually included the comprehensive backup of databases and the safe storage of valuable materials. Special librarians were also concerned about the enhancement of corporate confidentiality, especially with regard to new products, marketing campaigns, and personnel records. They were interested in finding new ways to reduce what is politely referred to as “internal misplacement” and which is more accurately described as “staff theft”.

At that time, my practice as a library disaster planner was limited to the West Coast, although occasionally I found work in eastern Canada and the United States. As my client roster grew, so did my interest in areas such as emergency management, disaster response, and business resumption. I earned a first aid ticket and attended seminars on conservation, computer fraud, alarm technology, white-collar crime, and crisis management. I must admit that much of my professional development was more theoretical than practical, but I saw no reason to change my ways. I was in the perfect frame of mind for the proverbial shake-up, which came to me just as I was reaching for a paperback copy of Albert Camus’s The Plague.

I was attending a conference in San Jose, California. The topic of the conference was bar coding. I have great respect for bar coding; I believe that in many settings it is an excellent way to enhance security while increasing efficiency. But several days of presentations on bar coding is not an exciting prospect. In fact, several minutes of bar coding is all that most of us can bear.

Just before 5 p.m. on October 17, 1989, with enormous relief, I walked out of the San Jose Conference Center into a warm evening. It was a World Series game night, and the streets were mostly deserted. A sign outside a mall announced that its bookshop remained open for business. I was looking for reading material aside from brochures on code scanning software, so I popped in for a browse. I was not impressed with the palette-loads of Stephen King and Danielle Steele, and there was nothing for me in the magazine rack, which contained every surfing magazine published in the western hemisphere. At the back of the shop I found a shelving unit crammed with what a sign described as “Lit’n’Stuff.” This sounded considerably more promising than Surfin’ Tan Monthly, but I was disappointed to find little more than a row of gift-edition Shakespeares and The Collected Poems of Rod McKuen. Then, to one side, I spotted a copy of Camus’s The Plague, which looked like the sort of thing that could clear my mind of bar coding. I reached for it. And then, all of a sudden, the shelf seemed to reach for me.

At least it hopped toward me, McKuen and all. The lights dimmed, then went out. All that anyone could hear at the moment was a deep, grumbling roar. The building began to shake, the floor undulated. The shelf hopped again in my direction, and showered me with Shakespeare. And then the shaking stopped, and everything fell silent.

My trip to California turned out to be more educational than I had expected. I may have forgotten everything I learned about bar coding, but the Loma Prieta earthquake was the most compelling teacher that any disaster planner could ask for.

After the quake, I spent several days inspecting various sites that had been damaged, including a number of libraries. Certain images are indelible in my memory: walls with deep cracks from floor to ceiling, aisles buried under thousands of fallen volumes, row after row of collapsed shelving, piles of shattered glass. I soon realized that many of my notions regarding disaster preparedness and response were impractical. I also understood that, while most Californians are fatalistic about many risks that prevail in their state, my fellow Canadians will ignore such things until it starts raining Shakespeare.

Upon my return home, I revised my disaster planning methodology. I developed a commonsensical model in the form of a schedule or action plan that my library clients could follow to mitigate the risks that prevail at their sites. I made sure that the model could be adapted to meet the needs of librarians in different kinds of organizations. What I changed more than anything else was my approach to library projects and clients. Instead of assuming responsibility for all aspects of library’s disaster plan, I changed my role to that of trainer and facilitator for in-house disaster planning activities.

Currently, my relationship with most library clients begins with a call from a librarian who has been assigned the task of “putting together some kind of plan in case the roof falls in.” This librarian usually has no experience in disaster planning, but he or she has time to spare—or so the occupational health and safety committee assumes. Where to begin? Nobody on staff seems to know. During our first meeting, I explain five essential points of disaster planning.

First, the best motivation for compiling a disaster plan is a controlled sense of urgency. In other words, what should motivate you is not panic, or boredom, or a little bit of money that has to be spent before the end of the year, but an awareness that there are risks to your library’s safety and security. You know you should take effective steps to deal with those risks. There is no such thing as a risk that cannot be mitigated.

Second, effective planning is site-specific. This means you must pay strict attention to your own library site or sites, and resist the temptation to borrow the plan of a library located in another region. If you work in a public library in Winnipeg, Manitoba, then you should concentrate on the risks that prevail in Winnipeg. The disaster plan compiled for a college library in southern California will not give you the background you need to prepare your library for its prevailing risks. After all, Winnipeg suffers very few earthquakes, and Southern California is not known for its snowstorms.

Third, you should depend on facts, not on uninformed opinions, guesses, or gossip. There are often false rumors about risks that prevail at certain sites. These rumors can lead to bad planning. For example, librarians in Alberta and Saskatchewan need not worry about earthquakes, yet I have seen several disaster plans for libraries in these provinces that include procedures for staff to follow when the shelves start hopping about. Apparently, some years ago, a rumor circulated that there was a serious earthquake risk across the Prairies. This is not so. Ironically, in none of these plans were there effective measures for dealing with flooding, which is the most common form of disaster in libraries across Canada.

Fourth, your model for an effective disaster plan should address the needs of your library before, during, and after any disaster. Accordingly, your plan will include three sections: preparedness, response, and resumption.

Fifth, the effectiveness of your disaster plan is ultimately up to you. A consultant can give you helpful advice on anything from evacuation procedures to data backup, but in the end, you and your colleagues are responsible for the major components of your plan. It is up to you to test the plan and keep it current. No consultant can promise to be onsite with you when all hell breaks loose.

In subsequent meetings, my contact and I can begin working on the library’s disaster plan. In most cases, I set a time limit on the planning process so that it does not become too lengthy and expensive. Generally speaking, I like to work with my library client to produce the first draft of a comprehensive plan within one month or less.

We begin with the preparedness section. This will contain a summary of risks to the library, including any outstanding natural risks, such as earthquakes, severe storms, high winds, and floods from bodies of water, such as rivers and lakes. Risks arising from human activity should be noted as well. These include toxic spills, sabotage, floods from faulty plumbing and roof leaks, and fires from faulty wiring.

At this point in the planning process, it can be helpful to distinguish between an emergency and a disaster. An emergency is an event that can be managed and resolved either by traditional “first responders”—police, firefighters, and ambulance crews—or by a person or persons at the scene who can initiate emergency response procedures. For example, you are faced with an emergency when a senior has a heart attack in your reference section. There should be at least one staff member onsite during opening hours who can administer CPR, and all staff should know when it is appropriate to summon an emergency team by dialing 911. Emergencies are usually limited to one site. A disaster is an event that is beyond fast resolution owing to its size and severity. For example, a toxic spill can force the evacuation of an entire community and can cause multiple casualties. Such an event cannot be easily controlled by any human agency, and often recovery from it will be expensive and time consuming. An effective disaster plan will protect you in the event of either an emergency or a disaster. In preparing for the big one, you should cover the small ones as well.

Having identified the risks, we try to find ways to mitigate them. If there is any sign that the plumbing in the library is inclined to leak or burst, we arrange for it to be inspected. If there are concerns about any sort of fire hazard, we invite the local fire department to visit the library for a tour. In earthquake zones such as British Columbia, we will recommend that all shelving be moored securely to the floor. We will find out which staff members have training in first aid and CPR, and encourage the rest to take courses from the Red Cross or St. John’s Ambulance.

The preparedness section also contains a record of all fire drills, when they took place and how well they performed in evacuating the building. Was the entire staff outside in less than a minute, or did people dawdle? To some, drills may seem to be a waste of time, but they should be reminded that in a real fire, a cynical attitude could cost them their lives.

Our next step is the formulation of the response section, which addresses the risks indicated in the preparedness section. It should be brief enough to fill no more than a single page, which can be easily reproduced and distributed to every staff member. Usually in point-form, it will cover measures that everyone should take to protect themselves during an actual disaster or emergency. The following response section is part of a plan in effect at a Vancouver special library.