There's a god for that
These are coastal cities where time reveals and videos record, second-by-second, not just a wave, not a crest, but an unstoppable mass that lunges and churns from sea to earth, that heaves and swirls over seawalls, that crushes and swallows lives and hope.
One report after another is handed to the announcer, pressed into duty by the urgency of stranded commuters, the needs of information-starved officials, and the watchful nation of citizens that just need to know. The announcer, in short-sleeved shirt and without a tie, is clearly not the polished anchor of the nightly news, but he serves well. And the production team makes do as well: stitching together video clips as they come in, cutting in with hastily called briefings from first-response leaders, dispatching reporters and camera crews to Tokyo’s transportation hubs, composing one bulletin after another for the announcer to read. These first bulletins are weighted toward the status of Tokyo: its train service, any open roads, the extent of the blackout (especially as night approaches), where people are finding food (since most eateries are without electricity, thus closed). And throughout the announcer’s staccato of news, he himself is overridden by the emergency public broadcast system announcing aftershocks as they occur.