Freedom to Speed

The essay “Autoliberation” by Brent Knutson is, to me, a reaffirmation of what I’ve always personally believed in when it comes to driving – speed does not kill, and as the essay states, “Driving fast… is not a hazard; speed combined with incompetence, alcohol, or hazardous conditions is dangerous” (621).

I own a high performance coupe – an Infiniti G37S and I know that this vehicle, based on the owner’s manual and all the reviews I’ve read, can be driven safely at high speeds, even in excess of 100 miles per hour. But here in Hawaii where I live, the fastest speed I am allowed to drive this vehicle is at 65 miles per hour on two small stretches of highway.

I support the thesis of this essay – “speed limits on the freeways of the United States should be repealed. “ I’ve always believed that the US freeway speed limits are asinine but reading about how the insurance companies are manipulating accident statistics because they have a vested interest in keeping the speed limits down is an eye-opener to me: “The lifting of speed limits translates into fewer traffic citations issued by police. Fewer tickets means fewer points assessed on American’s driving records, which would remove the insurance industry’s primary tool for raising premiums. Needless to say, auto-insurance companies aren’t thrilled about the prospect of less money in their coffers” (622).

We, the drivers, should not let the car insurance companies get away with this. This practice, under the guise of keeping road accidents and fatalities down, is nothing but a devious and profit-oriented scam. On the contrary, as pointed out by this essay, increasing the speed limit lowers accidents and fatalities. “Rural interstate fatalities over the whole United States increased 19 percent between 1982 and 1992. But driving increased 44 percent. So the fatality rate is on a definite downward trend from 1.5 to 1.2 [percent].”

The author does not deny that Americans are some of the worst and accident-prone drivers in the world. But this is not because they drive fast.  Here on the island of Oahu where I’ve lived for the past 12 years, there have been numerous road accidents, many resulting in fatalities. From the newspaper reports, many of these accidents involved speed but almost always in combination with alcohol and/or drug use.  The rest were results of incompetent or inattentive driving.  I believe that laws on driving while impaired can be better enforced.

I also agree that American drivers need to be better educated when it comes to driving.  The essay points out that well-educated and disciplined drivers in Germany’s super highways, or the autobahn, where there are no speed limits, contribute to the autobahn being rated as one of the safest highways in the world. It’s not too late. The author believes  “Americans’ poor driving habits can be remedied. Through intensive driver-education programs, stringent licensing criteria, and public service announcement campaigns, we can learn to drive more proficiently” (621).

But to me, the most compelling argument in favor of repealing speed limits in the United States is that these speed limits are curtailing the people’s right to enjoy their cars to the fullest. Cars that are built using the latest in technology to make them as safe as possible to operate, even at very high speeds.

A few days after I bought my car, I was driving on Highway 3 to Kaneohe Bay for an early morning round of golf on the windward side of the island.  Highway 3 is a scenic highway that snakes around and through the Ko’olau mountain range. After I got through the tunnel and passed a series of winding turns, in front of me was a long stretch of straight, smooth highway. It was 6 in the morning and there was nobody else on the road. I wasn’t able to resist the temptation. I pressed on the accelerator and the 330-horsepower engine instantaneously responded with a high-pitched whine and the car sped up effortlessly up to 55 mph, then 65, 75, and yes, 80 mph. The adrenaline surge I felt was indescribable! Coming to my senses, I eased on the accelerator and back to the legal boring speed limit.

Works Cited:

Knutson, Brent. “Autoloberation” Reading Critically, Writing Well. 7th edition,

2005:619-623.

Yoshi San, Zippy’s Sushi Chef

Zippy’s Restaurant is a Hawaii franchise that specializes in local favorites like saimin, golden crispy chicken, oxtail soup, and President Obama’s favorite - the Zip Pac, a bento box that includes fried chicken, teri beef, fish fillet, spam, and rice. So, when I found out that Zippy’s in Pearl City, about ten minutes from where I live, had a sushi bar, the first thing that came to mind was, “Really?” I just had to check this out! So, on a Friday evening after work, I convinced my wife for a sushi night, and off we went.

Zippy’s at Pearl City, located on the mountain-side of Kam Highway next to a steep road, is a red two-story building overlooking Pearl Harbor with a parking garage on the ground floor. It has all the three standard features of a Zippy’s - a Napoleon’s Bakery on the front, a fast food area on the right, and a dining-in area on the left side; and, as I now know, a sushi bar. We  were greeted warmly by the usher and the sweet smell of baked goodies. As we were being led to our seats on the bar when a loud booming voice startled us with, “Irasimasé!” The voice came from a smiling sushi chef dressed in immaculate double-breasted whites. His name tag read, “Yoshi.”

Drawing from my small arsenal of Japanese, I replied, “Konnichiwa, Yoshi San!,” as we took our seats. “Hai!,” he said, “Irashimasé is traditional Japanese welcome. Here in Hawaii, we should say, HMSA!,” and he started laughing. (HMSA is a healthcare insurance company).  We laughed, too. Don’t ask why; I guess one has to be local to find the humor. He then asked, “You like to start with miso?” We said yes and he motioned his sous chef who filled two bowls with the hot soup.

As we were enjoying our miso, he said, “I have best view of sunset. This time of year, sun sets in Makaha. Soon it will set in Nanakuli, then Ewa.” As he was talking, he was squinting his eyes, presumably from the sunlight, and pointed from northwest to southwest with his hand in a chopping motion like he was cutting fish. We, including the only other customer at the end of the bar, turned around and witnessed through the bare glass windows the last rays of the sun piercing some low-lying clouds, providing a spectacular tableau. We all nodded in agreement.

I ordered maguro sashimi after we finished our soup. The chef pulled out a slab of nice, firm bluefin tuna onto his chopping board. With his razor sharp knife glistening under the track lights, he methodically sliced eight equally thin cuts, shiny and red in their freshness, and neatly arranged them on a plain white rectangular china. He then placed small amounts of wasabi paste and pickled ginger, completing the art piece.  He handed it over with a grin and a bow. I returned the bow and said, “Arigato guzaimasu!” (Thank you very much!).

The sashimi was delectable! The freshly pounded wasabi had an extra kick to it as the strong aroma permeated through my nostrils and momentarily froze my brain. I loved it! I next ordered nigiri sushi - uni (urchin roe) and amaebi (sweet shrimp). Yoshi San moistened his hands with vinegar water then scooped just enough rice on one palm. He then expertly formed the rice into a lump with his fingers before wrapping it with nori (seaweed), making sure the nori extended a tad over the rice to keep the slippery roe in place. Using a long pair of chopsticks, he picked a generous sliver of uni from a bowl, laid it expertly on top of the molded rice, then started a row on a wooden serving block. The amaebi heads were expertly pulled, passed to the sous chef who dipped them in a batter, then deep fried them. Leaving the tails intact, the shells were peeled off before the plump, naked shrimps were laid onto the molded rice minus the nori, forming the second row. This masterpiece was garnished with the crispy shrimp heads pointed up, whiskers and all. They looked deceivingly prickly to the touch.

While we were enjoying this luscious array, I had a chance to observe our chef. Yoshi San is in his mid-sixties, a little on the heavy side, well-fed, undoubtedly a job benefit. He has a perpetual smile and he wrinkles his thick eyebrows and squints his already squinty eyes when he talks. I’m not sure if this is a mannerism or maybe that he just needs glasses. I guess the squinting wasn’t from the sunlight, after all. He said he was originally from the Japanese island of Kyushu. He moved to Hawaii in the mid-80’s, worked for a restaurant in Maui for about ten years, then moved to Oregon. Missing the warm Hawaii weather, he came back, this time to Oahu, in the mid-2000’s, and has been on this job since. He said he lives just a few blocks away and walks to work. Obviously, a very contented man.

As more customers shuffled in, the sound of lively chatters steadily rose. Through the cacophony of voices, Yoshi San asked us if there was anything else. I said, “Omakasé shimasu, kudasai.” (Please choose for us). He went back to work with the precision of a surgeon, molding rice and slicing fish. This time the fish cuts were so big they were dangling on both ends of the the molded rice. As he handed the plate of sushi over, he said with his biggest smile of the night, “This is my favorite.” I immediately recognized the pink colored and rich textured fish - hamachi (yellowtail amberjack), my favorite, as well.

Soon, Yoshi San was consumed with other customers, food servers, his sous chef, and the rapid yet orchestrated art of sashimi- and sushi-making. Like a painter delicately running his brush on canvas, he doled out his masterpieces one after the other. Before we left, I managed to grab his attention to say goodbye. He gave me a deep bow and said, “Arigato guzaimasu, ja mata!” (Thank you very much, see you again!) A new couple sat in our place and as we were walking out, we heard the now familiar loud booming voice, “Irashimasé!”

Remembering Mount Pinatubo

I was in the US Air Force and stationed at Clark Air Base, Philippines, when on the early Wednesday morning of June 12, 1991, we were ordered to immediately evacuate. Following instructions from the US Armed Forces Far East Network (FEN) radio, my family, including my wife, Tess, our three small children and I, got in the car with a few personal items. We drove out fast from base housing and joined a long line of vehicles, all anxious to get away from a steaming volcano that was eerily visible in our rear-view mirror. That volcano is Mount Pinatubo and it was about to explode and change our lives forever.

Our convoy, moving at a snail’s pace, was escorted above by helicopters like hawks looking for prey. We were headed to our designated safe haven - Subic Naval Base, about 50 miles southwest. Both Clark and Subic were US overseas bases. After driving all day,  we arrived tired and haggard-looking at Subic. We registered and got assigned to stay with a Navy family in base housing.

It was late when we met our host family - a quiet Navy man with a pencil-thin mustache, his wife, two chatty teen-aged girls and a hyper-active 10-year old boy named Maloy. They were all very friendly, the women - inquisitive. Mattresses and blankets were already laid out in the living room for us. Exhausted, we went straight to bed.

Other than a looming volcano ready to blow up, the next two days were uneventful. Then, on Friday at about 10 AM, as we were driving to the beach, the sky became ominously dark. I pulled over, got out and looked up where everyone was looking - a huge ash cloud that covered half the sky! Shaped like an anvil with a plume, it looked strikingly beautiful. The cloud eventually dispersed, giving everyone a big sigh of relief. Little did we know that this was just a prelude to our nightmare.

That night we had a sumptuous potluck barbecue dinner with our host family. Convinced we’d seen the worst and should be going home soon, Tess and I started making plans for family activities. We went to bed with happy images of our kids playing in the park near a picnic table. We woke up Saturday mid-morning in pitch black darkness with sounds of raindrops coming from outside. The power was out. I lit up a candle, turned on FEN radio and learned that Mount Pinatubo had begun to erupt, wreaking havoc. We also learned that a typhoon was hours away and heading west toward the volcano! What are the odds? The rainbands ahead of the typhoon were already spreading the ash indiscriminately like a loose garden hose.

As the day progressed, the pitter-patter of rainfall got heavier. We ventured out into the carport and aimed our flashlights into the dark. We were able to make out not only raindrops, but also ash and tiny rocks. We stuck out our hands and the sensation of the particles hitting our palms was tingly, but it didn’t hurt at all. The kids were actually enjoying it! “It can’t get any worse than this,” I told Tess. And then we saw a flash of lightning followed by a loud thunderclap. “Kaboom!”

The kids, followed by Tess, ran inside, frightened. I’m not sure what I was thinking but I lingered to watch and record this amazing phenomenon with my video camera. The thunder and lightning became more frequent. Being a meteorologist, I assumed that thunderstorms embedded in the typhoon’s feeder bands have made landfall and have closed in. But then the lightning started streaking in different colors: red, magenta, green, and blue - an electrifying kaleidoscope.

I learned later that Mount Pinatubo had what volcanologists call a phreatic eruption, the explosive type that granulates rocks and shoots them up along with incendiary gases like phosphorus and magnesium, hence the colorful discharges. They looked spectacular but scary.

Coming to my senses, I went indoors to join my family, who by now had become more agitated. Tess and I tried to calm our kids, reassuring them that everything would be okay. They seemed to relax a bit. Then the ground began to tremble. Our host family, who up to this point were all upstairs, came scrambling down, asking, “Did you feel that? Was that an earthquake?” Then the quakes became stronger and more frequent. But, thank God, not strong enough to topple down anything in the house. We were all scared! Everyone was quiet and huddled together with their family. Everyone except Maloy.

Maloy was amusing himself by making shadow puppets. He even had sound effects for the objects he projected on the wall with his hands in front of a candle. When he got tired of that, he put on a pair of pillows on his feet and started jumping from one piece of furniture to another growling and flexing his arms, like the Incredible Hulk. He was so funny, my kids forgot their ordeal and began giggling! Unfortunately, his dad, looking annoyed, made him stop.

So we went back to our somber selves. Then we heard one really loud clap of thunder followed by a big thud. It sounded so close we all rushed to the front door. There, across the front yard was a big branch. It had broken off from the tree due to the weight of the wet ash! That explained the numerous thunderclaps.

Finally, just before midnight, the shaking, the lightning show, the thunderclaps, and the peter-patter on the roof all tapered off and a sense of calmness ensued. We waited. Then waited some more.  Dead silence. We put the kids to sleep. Tess and I stayed up, mostly in silence, until the morning came. Sunday, June 16, 1991, the sun came up bright with a promise of a new day.

Sheesh, all that for Sushi?

Last week, I was in Tokyo attending a Tropical Cyclone Conference and sure enough, as what usually happens when you gather a bunch of meteorologists (aka weather forecasters), the weather turns bad - incessant rain and howling winds. Luckily, it only lasted a day and we did have at least two nights to explore the city.

A friend of mine, Chris, who is based in Japan and also attended the conference, asked me and a few others if we wanted to go to a sushi restaurant. Not just a typical sushi bar or restaurant that abound Tokyo but THE Fukuzushi Restaurant. I Googled it on my phone during one of the dry presentations and found out that: Fukuzushi was family-owned, very old (est. 1917), and rather expensive ("expect to spend at least 8,000 yen," one food blogger warned). The last description was what turned the others off. (Chris said they were just being cheapskates considering we were getting USD 248 per diem). For me, I got intrigued, and besides, I just got done with my presentation, I love sushi and I thought it was a good way to treat myself.

So, with directions in hand, off Chris and I went in search of this famed sushi mecca. It wasn't easy. After a dizzying subway ride and a long winding walk through the streets and back alleys of Roponggi, and just before we were ready to give up, we found the place. Not very impressive, I must say - the facade was simple, no fancy neon signs, just a well-lit glass covered menu display next to a wooden front door. But the uniqueness was noticeable after we stepped in. The maître d' gave us a warm welcome, patiently took our orders, and - get this - announced our presence to the whole restaurant! After everyone looked our way, the four chefs behind the bar, shouted in unison, "Yokuso, irashaimase!" (Welcome!)

I was, however, a little disappointed there was no available seat on the bar. It would have been nice to watch the itamae (sushi chefs) at work. As soon as we were seated in our table, we were given the traditional oshibori (hot towels) and served with small servings of salad and miso. The salad dressing was already mixed in and hinted scents of rice vinegar, not overpowering at all. The miso had bits of fish and very hot; just what we needed after walking in from the cold, it really hit the spot. After the empty bowls and plates were taken away, I had a chance to look around.

Most of the patrons were businessmen enjoying fine dining with their coworkers, clients, or partners. In one corner of the bar, two older gentlemen approached a group (after the customary announcement, of course). Immediately, everyone in the group stood up and bowed deeply to the first gentleman, who,in turn, bowed slightly (signifying more rank) and introduced the other gentleman with him. The group bowed to him as well, then everyone pulled out business cards from their wallets and handed them to him (the second older gentleman). Then they all sat down, by rank.

My gaze was unceremoniously blocked by our server who brought our first bottle of saké. Knowing a little bit of Japanese custom, (Asian, really), I poured a drink for Chris. He did the same for me and we had our first toast, "Kampai!" I am not a saké connoisseur by any means, but this was the smoothest saké I've ever had! Chris agreed and we had another toast. And what a delicious way to cleanse our palate because just as soon as we slammed our glasses down, the sashimi was served.

The sashimi was so delectable to my eyes and to my taste buds. The toro was seared very quickly over hot charcoal you can taste the woody aroma, the maguro was marinated in fine soy sauce, and the hamachi looked so fresh it was glistening. The wasabi was fresh-ground from the root you can see the pulp, you only need a speck on your soy saucer. Each slice we carefully dipped with our chopsticks in the wasabi-soy sauce and we savored every bite, letting all our senses partake of the joyful experience. If this is not nirvana, I don't know what is. After each slice we cleansed our palate with a sip of saké, the grins on our faces so wide. Does it get better? Yes.

During the next interlude, I studied the rest of the restaurant. The size was small compared to American restaurants but big for Tokyo standards. Except for a wood-carving on a red wall behind the chefs, the other walls were bare and dark-colored. A Gai-jin family of four walked in and were promptly escorted to their reserved seats at the bar. They were obviously regulars with the way they exchanged pleasantries with the staff. Are they rich expats? Diplomats? Celebrities? Why is the woman wearing sunglasses inside?

I was roused from my reverie when the second bottle of saké arrived. Chris filled our glasses and we began to take slow sips, exchanging assumptions about the new customers. Then our server brought in two cups of hot green tea. She said something to the effect that it's good to warm the stomach before the next course comes in. The green tea had a seaweed taste to it and I wasn't too crazy about it but our server looked like she was going to pounce on me if I didn't finish it so I did.

And it came. As the tray of sushi was lowered onto the table, I imagined a choir of angels singing, "Alleluia!" It was simply marvelous! We did not waste any time, I went straight for the unagi (eel). Very tasty and tender; the sauce was just right - not salty at all and just a hint of sweetness. We savored every bite, careful not to miss anything. Our chef had ingredients in some of the sushi that I've never had before. Half of them did not require wasabi sauce. Chris even closed his eyes while chewing to enhance his other senses, at one point waiting slowly, then exclaiming, "There it is!" Presumably biting on something inside the sushi that exploded with flavor. I saved the amaebi (sweet shrimp) for last and washed it down with the last of my sake.

The trays of sashimi and sushi were truly works of art. The plain white ceramic trays were canvasses for masterpieces. I know that most fine dining restaurants, including high-end sushi bars, serve their food in visually pleasing ways but the sushi and sashimi trays at Fukuzushi were like Monet and Matisse paintings. And just like Japanese art, their beauty is in their simplicity.

After a small dessert and a cup of coffee, it was time to go. After we paid our bill (no tip required, what a concept) and made our way to the door, we were again bade farewell by the chefs. And the maître d' in a sing-song fashion waved, "Jaa mata! (See you again!)

Back at the hotel, I contemplated on the experience I just had. Could I have had the same quality of sushi back in Hawaii or anywhere in the world, for that matter? The answer is yes, of course. But it's the total experience that made the difference. It's the pride that the Japanese put in their livelihood, in their culture, in their food, in everything they do. When I first checked in to my room, I noticed there were drinking glasses but none of the ubuiquitous bottled water so I called the front desk and asked. The attendant politely said, "Sir, the tap water is potable." Wow, I couldn't remember the last hotel I stayed at where the water was safe to drink! One early morning, I ventured out on the street for a walk and witnessed storekeepers doing their morning routines, including sweeping the sidewalk and gutter in front of their shops. The roads and walkways are spanking clean and I did not see a single pothole! Pride.

Now I'm back in Hawaii and my wife, Tess, and I have already made one trip to a local sushi bar. We both love sushi and we both appreciate all the little things that our chef and the wait staff do to make our dining pleasant. I know I may never have the same sushi experience like the one in Japan, again. But one lesson that I learned during that trip is that what make a dining experience memorable is that one, the food must be of top quality, two, the restaurant must treat the customer like they were royalty, and third, the customer must be willing to be pampered and at least have some knowledge on how to enjoy the food he or she is about to partake in. "Kampai!"