ABALONE SHELLS
AND GREEN ONIONS
It was down at Cannery Row; wherever that
place is in California. I'd gotten there in the
rain, but, determined as I was, I kept my
appointment for the diving bell. It was
maybe 10:am? We went on in. This was
what John Steinbeck had written some grimy
novel about, and I'd read it once but hardly
remembered. Thieves, and sad people, and
that certain sort of rancor that causes. It was
all I remembered, still.
-
The diving bell was just that; a bathysphere
by its other name. Thick glass windows so
we could see out, all the way down, maybe
200 feet. Something like that, maybe less.
-
I felt OK. There were little seats for peering
out, though the green murky view wasn't
all that much. The guide blamed the three
days of rain for messing the finish, and I
had to believe that was true. Call me Captain
Nemo but it hardly mattered. Some fish
went by, whiter and larger than I was
accustomed to.
-
No noise, to speak of; just the wavering
chatter of five other people, and a guide.
And a pilot? Someone in charge? I wasn't
sure - maybe it was merely suspended on
some cable that let it fall. This maritime
ball in its own murky waters.
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