"What's that sound, Mommy?" My 2-year-old son looked up from splashing in his bath. It was a Sunday afternoon in August, a summer day; but then every day is summer on Guam.

"Just an airplane, sweetie," I said, picking up the wash cloth and swishing it over his back. A lifetime of living near the flightline had inured me to aircraft sounds. Still, I thought, that must be a big one. I wondered why the roaring sound didn't fade away as the plane passed over.

Instead it grew stronger, rattling the walls. For a few seconds, I remained sitting on the floor with my hands in the sudsy water, while the sound and the movement grew stronger.

Then I knew. The source was not in the air, but in the ground. I snatched Will from the water, stepped outside the bathroom and into the doorway of a bedroom.

In her room, my 3-week-old daughter slept in her crib, her little head bobbing slightly with the motion of the house. With Will on one hip, I grabbed Jessie with my free arm and cradled her as best I could.

"Stand in a doorway," earthquake preparedness reminded me, but a quick glance at the thin wooden doorframe and the concrete ceiling above it suggested otherwise. Afraid that the lightweight inner framing of the house would offer no protection if the solid concrete roof gave way, I headed for the front door.

Without doubt, this was an earthquake. The walls trembled and creaked. I heard the sound of breaking glass behind me, but I did not look back.

The house rocked. The floor moved. I was crazily reminded of a jolting ride in the back of my dad's pickup on a country road. But I was a long way from Oklahoma, and it seemed I would never reach the front door either.

When I did get there, I don't remember how I turned the doorknob with a child in each arm. I only remember that as I stepped onto the front porch, the world stopped moving.

In the driveway, our old gray car still bounced on its worn shocks, but the earthquake was over.

My neighbor across the street, Trish, was also standing in her doorway. "Are you okay?" she called to me.

I looked from Will -- wet, slippery and still holding a tub toy -- to Jessie -- her newborn head lolling to one side -- and gave an honest answer "No!"

I was barefoot, and I knew there was broken glass on my floor. Trish came over and found my shoes and got a towel for Will. I took Jessie to her room and put her, still sleeping, back in her crib.

It grew dark. Really dark. The whole island was without electricity. Neighbors dropped in to visit and share news heard on battery powered radios. Veterans of five typhoons, we had lanterns always ready.

Signal lights were out, so traffic was snarled. My husband was across the island, and it was several hours before he arrived home safely.

Damage on some parts of the island was severe. But our typhoon-safe base houses also proved to be earthquake survivors.

In my house, the breaking glass turned out to be just that: One drinking glass rolled from the cabinet and shattered on the tiles. Two or three pictures were askew on our walls.

We had no electricity for a few days. We couldn't drink our tap water for quite a few more. Damage at the port interrupted shipments and kept the commissary shelves a little bare for some time.

However, we considered ourselves blessed. The epicenter had been far below the surface of the earth, and we were spared a more severe shaking. There were injuries, but no deaths on the island.

It seemed like forever, but the earthquake lasted just over a minute, we later learned. It registered above an 8 on the Richter scale.

That and the date, the 8th day of the 8th month of 1993, tagged the earthquake as the Triple 8.

With or without a catchy name, we are not likely to forget it.