Rite of Passage

As a teenager in Hawaii I spent a lot of time behind the wheel, but, of course, never continuously. The entire island of Oahu, about 600 square miles, is only a third larger than the city of Los Angeles. [Imagine being confined to LA until turning 18. Oh, the horror! sniff my East Coast and San Francisco acquaintances.]

From my house the longest drive was the one and a half hours from Honolulu to Mokuleia on the North Shore. One didn’t undertake the trek lightly; a full tank of gas as well as a good night’s sleep were advisable before venturing forth. The road was of spotty quality--bumpy, narrow and windy in spots; completion of the H-1 / H-2 / H-3 “interstate” freeways (so designated because Defense access roads qualify for Federal funding) was still decades away. One also had to fight boredom, because the radio emitted only static once the car went over the mountains. Those were the years before everyone had affordable gadgets, before CD- and cassette-players, before cup-holders and cell-phones.

And so it was that this Island boy turned 20 before he took his first extended road trip. My uncle, the best mechanic I ever knew, bought a used VW Beetle for $500 in Southern California. He gave it a thorough going-over, put on new tires, and pronounced it fit for travel. He showed me how to change the oil and set the timing; I had to turn the engine by hand so that the static timing light just flicked on about 8 degrees before the top dead center mark. When the engine purred, it got nearly 30 miles per gallon, which was important because filling my tank cost almost three dollars in that summer of ’73.

I put the back seat down and loaded my worldly possessions into the Beetle. I headed North on Highway 101, which was slower than Highway 5 but was the simplest way to get to San Francisco. The VW chassis vibrated noticeably at 65 mph, so I drove in the right lane at 60 and eight hours later pulled into the driveway of the Peninsula house where I would rent a room for the next two years.

I was reminded of my rite of passage when I accompanied my son, now 20, on the 8-hour drive south to San Diego on Highway 5. He drove in a car that was heavier and safer than mine had been, at a much faster speed and over a smoother road. We were armed with cell-phones and an emergency road side service membership, yet I was more concerned about his trip than I was about the one I took over 30 years ago. I think being a parent causes permanent changes in the part of the brain that assesses risk.

We arrived at the house without incident. I flew back to San Jose the next morning.


San Diego dining room: the background percussion at mealtime is no extra charge.