Imploding the Male Monopoly of Demolition Business

Jennifer Hile
National Geographic Channel

June 15, 2004

The largest concrete dome in the world crumpled like a pressed flower.
Two tons of nitroglycerin-based dynamite shattered the 125,000-ton
concrete structure of the Kingdome in Seattle, Washington, in a matter
of seconds. There wasn't so much as a crack in the foundation of a new
stadium under construction just 90 feet (27 meters) away.

Controlled Demolition, Inc. (CDI), carefully orchestrated the destruction. Based in Phoenix, Maryland, it's one of a handful of family-run companies, each passed from generation to generation, that handle all major structural implosions around the country. It's the only company in this group where daughters are rising through the ranks.

Stacey Loizeaux is project manager on some of the biggest projects tackled by the company her grandfather, Jack Loizeaux, founded 57 years ago. That makes her an anomaly in the industry of destruction.

"Stacey grew up around this work and is respected for being every bit as competent as any of the men," explained Mike Taylor, executive director of the National Demolition Association." She's working in a business that's about 95 percent male."

An Industry Is Born

Loizeaux's grandfather discovered his knack for explosions after finishing a forestry degree at the University of Georgia and founding a tree service business; he frequently used explosives to get rid of stumps. Before long he used the same technique to help a neighbor take down an old chimney.

"My grandfather decided it was nothing more than a big tree of bricks," Loizeaux said. "So he created notches at the base, just as he would on a tree, and used explosives to blast it out, thereby felling it in a controlled direction.

"Once word got around, he was asked to take down a building using the same technique. His answer: Absolutely not. But my grandmother finally convinced him to take the project and voila! An industry was born."

Keeping It in the Family

Loizeaux's first job in her grandfather's company was raking leaves around the office when she was 12 years old. She did odd jobs until coming on full-time after finishing a degree in business administration at the University of Maryland in 1991. "I tried to rebel against the family company in my adolescence; I was the lead singer in three bands over six years but quickly realized that nothing was quite as interesting as this job."

CDI has taken down structures on six continents. Loizeaux's first international project was in Mexico City after a massive earthquake in 1985 when she was 15. "Thousands and thousands of people were killed and a major portion of the city was destroyed. It was catastrophic."

The company was responsible for taking down 26 damaged buildings. "CDI was hired by the U.S. government as part of their disaster-relief effort. I grew up a lot in the two weeks I was down there, because I was exposed to so much devastation and tragedy."

Seattle's Kingdome

Not all of CDI's projects are born of tragedy. When Paul Allen, co-founder of Microsoft, wanted to demolish the Kingdome in March 2000 to make room for a new stadium, "my father took the job out of pure pleasure," Loizeaux said.

"It's a one-of-a-kind structure, making it an interesting challenge. It was also enormous. It's in the Guinness book of world records for largest structure by volume ever demolished with explosives."

For Loizeaux, now a seasoned professional, this was also an opportunity to prove herself. "There is nothing, and I mean nothing, easy about being a woman in this industry," she explained. "When I started 13 years ago, I was young and blond and got a lot of name calling: things like sweetheart, dollface, daddy's little princess. I had a chip on my shoulder about it and worked double time to force people to respect me.

"But I learned that you can't make someone respect you. You can just do your job well, extremely well, and the respect comes naturally."

Planning the demolition of the Kingdome took two years. Four months before detonation, the physical work began: Five thousand nine hundred and five holes were drilled for explosives, and 22 miles (35 kilometers) of detonation cord were carefully placed, along with nearly 5,000 pounds (2,270 kilograms) of nitroglycerin-based dynamite.

"Seattle weather is less than kind, and we were frequently working in man-lifts as much as 220 feet (67 meters) tall. I'd be up in one of those, fully extended, with the wind rocking, rain in my face, laying explosives. It was tough work," Loizeaux said.

Earth Shaker

The simultaneous free fall of the 25,000-ton concrete roof alone would have created over 9 billion foot-pounds (12.2 billion joules) of energy. It would be a ground-shaking impact with the potential to cause widespread damage to nearby structures—damage that Loizeaux needed to prevent.

"We had to create a delay pattern to prevent the roof from hitting the ground at once," Loizeaux said. "We had thousands of different delays going off to separate all the explosions."

CDI also created earth berms: rows of soil and gravel standing 15 feet (4 meters) tall that lined the inside of the stadium. "As elements fell from the roof, it landed on these piles, which acted like cushions and spread out the impact."

March 26, 2000, was the day of demolition. "I was sitting at the blasting machine, and when I heard that countdown—five, four, three, two, one—what I saw overwhelmed me," Loizeaux said. "It's the most amazing thing I've ever seen in my life, and I knew what to expect. It was like watching a force of nature, a hurricane, or tornado."

A Woman in the Ranks

With many big jobs successfully completed, Loizeaux's reputation is secured.

"She is one of the guys when she's at work. She's not at all afraid to get dirty, to get in there and get the work done," said Bill Moore, a vice president for Brandenburg Industrial Service, Inc., one of the largest demolition contractors in the world.

"We've done two projects with her, and in each she did a little bit of everything, from drilling holes and wiring explosives to getting out and doing public relations work."

Guys on the job stopped calling her dollface long ago. "And I've learned to discriminate," Loizeaux said. "I no longer care what every loading operator thinks when he sees me walk on a job."

"As long as he does his job, and I do mine, that's all that matters."

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