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Thomas Steinbeck, �Down to a Soundless Sea�

Started August 25 � Finished August 27, 2004; 281 pages. Posted 09 October 2004

This is part four of a 25-part story about Hawaii. The story begins here. Other parts you�ll have to find yourself. So there.

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There�s a quote that goes something like, �you are not thy father�s son!� from something or other. That certainly fits for this book. After 38 years, Thomas Steinbeck decides he�s a writer, and gets a book of short stories published because of his family connections. He tries to write like his father, writing paragraph after paragraph about the environment of the Salinas Valley, but it all comes off as a hackneyed tribute to his dad � almost as if he was parodying his father�s style.

I suppose I can understand. Like my father, I have little use for wealth, and couldn�t give a flying fuck about being successful. But at the same time, if you compared his house with my room, you�d see that we�re as different as night and day. For he�s packed his entire life into 15 boxes � and they�re not large boxes either � while 15 boxes would probably take care of one bookcase for myself.

He�s been like this for the last 20-odd years. If you look though his mementos, you�d find only a couple of battered photo albums, some things from his college years, and some clothes. In fact, his house, before he packed it all away for his upcoming move, looked exactly like a stereotypical college dorm room, right down to the cinderblock and plywood shelves.

Of course, it�s not easy to retire with little-to-no savings at age 42. In order to survive with the intention of never working again, he became Mr. Chintzy. He didn�t spend any more money than necessary. He got food that fell from trees and for a while even excelled at the art of dumpster diving.

Eventually he hit social security age, and when the government started sending him checks it was like winning the lottery. But he was so set in his ways of not spending money, that he didn�t buy anything for himself. He probably saved enough checks to buy a convertible of Magnum P.I. proportions, but instead he lives in pretty much the same fashion. This is why he can pack his entire possessions into 15 boxes.

I respect this about him. Hell, I couldn�t do it, and I�ve been poor and jobless before. But I like my possessions, hence why I plan to be buried with all of them when I die.

When one is asked to help move a friend, one expects to have an all day affair. We fit the majority of his stuff in our Malibu. Another friend shows up to take the last few boxes, and then we�re off to the boatyard to get it shipped. Total time: probably less than an hour. The time spent is so short that Arlette and I sneak off to do some snorkeling by the docks.

Before we left the mainland, I was so concerned about the high cost of Hawaii, that I figured we could get everything cheaper here on the mainland. The Girlfriend and I scoured the stores looking for snorkeling gear and underwater cameras. What we didn�t take into account is that San Jose is landlocked, and therefore needs no snorkeling gear or underwater cameras.

Of course we did find some, but the prices were ridiculous. Finally, she suggested a used sporting good store chain, and we found a good price for gear for both of us. We bought it and brought it, and now we were finally going to get to try it out.

Within five minutes of getting into the water, my mask broke. The Girlfriend, being crafty, fixed it as best she could, and we swam long enough to get sunburned on all the parts of our body that we figured would be underwater. We returned just as my dad�s friend was loading up the rest of his stuff.

The car, on the way to the docks, seemed like it would die. No, die is too easy of a term. I thought it would implode, like the Blues Mobile after the chase scene in The Blues Brothers. After dropping off my father�s belongings, we go back to the rent-a-wreck place.

Apparently rent-a-wrecks that have automatic transmission aren�t their specialty, and we wait for at least an hour as they try and find a vehicle for us. I look around to the various banners that say �SALE! ALL CARS GO!� I can�t figure out if he�s trying to get rid of the lot, or if he�s suggesting that they actually run.

Finally, they roll out a Honda Civic. The first thing I notice is the silver. Not silver paint, but silver from the duct tape that�s attached to most of the hinge points of the car.

This is a car only Donald Rumsfield could love.

We pile in, and I head to the Marriott hotel for drinks in pineapples. I buy a round for The Girlfriend, my father, and me. My father, too used to the idea of free food, eats his pineapple after he finishes the drink, which I later learned gave him an allergic reaction, swelling the entire inside of his mouth.

The Girlfriend and I are giggling over the fact that our drinks fascinate kids all around the resort. As we walk along, pineapples with umbrellas and straws protruding from the top, kids stop in mid tantrum to gape in slack-jawed gazed wonder at the two of us and our drinks. A few of them manage to splutter out a few words, usually along the lines of �What�s that?�

�This,� I say in a child-friendly voice, �is a Long Island Ice Tea.�

�What�s in it?�

�Oooh, lots of good stuff. It�s the bestest drink in the whole wide world.�

The kids run off to beg their parents for drinks of their own.

We snicker at setting a good example and putting these children of our future to a life of alcoholism, albeit an alcoholism that consists of drinking out of decorative pineapples.

That�s okay. It�s not that much different from starting out on wine coolers. That�s how I started.


Rating: Library prices. As if finding out what a library will pay you to take it off your hands.

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