I went drown, drown, drown, and the waves went higher.
Japan's coastline-dwelling citizens have centuries of experience in the water-dodging field, including where best to lay camp if they don't want to wake up drowned one morning. Their conclusion: Build everything as high up as fucking possible. Through trial and fatal error (in particular, the 1896 Sanriku tsunami, which killed 22,000 people), they learned where tsunamis hit and how high up the waves go. Then, they erected stone slabs everywhere -- some of them six centuries old and over ten feet tall -- wrote warnings to not build anything below them, and hoped future generations would remember to read the blasted things.
It's the analog version of "I agree, I have read the terms and conditions."
The above stone, erected roughly a century ago near the tiny village of Aneyoshi, reads: "High dwellings are the peace and harmony of our descendants. Remember the calamity of the great tsunamis. Do not build any homes below this point." Aneyoshi heeded its warning and built their eleven houses even higher than the stone recommended. Each one survived the 2011 Tohoku tsunami, as did most of their 34 residents.