Tales from the Great Pacific Garbage Patch

The problem with my slip assignment in the harbor has been its location.  Simply put, all manner of flotsam somehow finds its way here: plastics of all descriptions, lumber, tree limbs, children's toys and the occasional dead body – actually, two, so far.

In effect, this is my back yard, which I refer to as the Great Pacific Garbage Patch – no disrespect meant to the deceased, of course – after its big brother in the Pacific Ocean's counter equatorial region just above the equator.  In the latter version, all manner of mostly plastic flotsam commingles to produce a miles-wide island of garbage in the middle of the Pacific ocean: a monument to man's expedience and first love, greed.

So, when the first dead body floated up next to my boat, the police were called, it was 2:30 A.M., and soon the flashing urgency of lighting on the tops of police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks – a hook and ladder truck, to be precise – was making its way to our little corner of the harbor. 

I was asleep when the policeman knocked on my boat.  Bleary eyed, I pulled back the sun shade.  "Sorry to bother you at this time of morning, but we'd like you to help us identify someone, if you don't mind," said the policeman still shining his spotlight on my boat.

"Couldn't this have waited until morning?" I asked, rubbing my eyes.

"I'm not sure you understand.  There is a dead man that has been found floating near your boat and we think that he is probably one of your neighbors."

"A dead man? You want me to identify a dead man (probably partially decomposed!) right out of a sound sleep?  Look officer, I don't mean to sound uncooperative, but having to look at a dead man at this time of day would most likely traumatize me for the rest of my life.  I'm afraid I can't help you.  Now, if you don't mind, I'll go back to bed."

"We've found this driver's license on him.  I wonder if you might look at the photo and tell me if you recognize this individual?"

"If you've found an ID on him, why are you bothering me?"

"Just another cross-check measure to positively identify the body – standard procedure, you understand."

The cop held out the license, but held on to it making sure to cover the name with his thumb.

I rubbed my eyes again and looked at it.

"Wait, I've got to get my glasses."

When I returned, the policeman hadn't budged. I looked at the picture again.

"Sorry officer, I've never seen this guy before."

"Are you sure?"

"Yep, don't recognize him," shifting to go back into the boat.

The cop stood there looking at me for a few seconds and then turned to leave, "sorry to wake you."

Probably because of the brain fog that usually shrouds my senses at that time of morning, I had absolutely no clue as to who that man was in the picture.  I would later come to find out that it was indeed one of my neighbors.

The deceased turned out to be a certain Traymor Tarren, a recluse living at the end of the dock in a tiny boat covered with layer upon layer of tattered brown and blue plastic tarps.  Our paths had crossed, one day, in the harbor bathroom, under the most unpleasant of circumstances. 

While I was using the shower, Mr. Tarren walked in to use the toilet, a reasonable arrangement since the two areas are quite separate, with a narrow passageway connecting both.  I could hear the stall door open, after which there was complete silence. Just as suddenly there was a terrible roar and a loud, angry slam, then a series of banging as if someone was punching the metal door leading into the stall, followed by a string of expletives that might have embarrassed the saltiest among us.  His personal tirade rolled out into the shower area, where I listened with eye-popping amazement behind a thin vinyl shower curtain as he carried on, talking about how someone had "shit" on the seat, "disgusting, foul, slithering bastards . . . " roaring all the while at the top of his lungs.

I was pretty convinced that this one-man melee would soon find its way into the shower stall itself, with me fully involved, as I was feeling as though he was blaming me for the transgression.  I waited, buck naked, with only a bar of Dove as a weapon, and thought that this could get interesting.

The boisterous display of displeasure ended when Mr. Tarren tossed a metal waste basket against the beige tiled bathroom wall.  The hapless bin ricocheted from one end of the room to the other, spewing paper towels and other unidentifiable effluence from one end of the room to the other, creating a minefield for newly showered tenants who were, after all, innocent.

And then there was silence.  I heard the entrance door slam.  He was gone.

The story of Traymor Tarren is actually quite an interesting one, though.  In his day, he had been a very famous Hollywood stuntman.  Good looking, daring, and well paid, life was good.  Lots of ladies to share his bed, a nice home, fast cars, and plenty of work, he was always in demand.

Then there was the accident.  A motorcycle stunt that went horribly wrong.  He spent over a year in and out of hospitals.  The shattered vertebrae meant that he would never be able to do very much of anything strenuous for the rest of his life.  Overnight, he was Traymor Tarren, nobody.

His money ran out and he could barely scrape together enough to buy the tiny boat where he would live out the rest of his years.

He drank and was on pain medications. He refused to speak to anyone.

I remember seeing him, one day, pushing a large, green bottle, upside down, into the earth around one of the beautiful flowering trees that are common to this area and are found in the center isle of the harbor grounds.  The bottle had water in it, and he did this quite often to make sure that the tree had enough moisture.  He could often be seen picking up fallen flowers from beneath the tree and then putting them up to his nose, while he leaned against a nearby railing gazing at the flower display.

Someone said he tripped and fell in the water, either on drugs or alcohol, while he was trying to get back onto his boat the evening he died – no one actually saw the accident. The rumors flew round for a few days – rumors about everything from murder to suicide.   And then it was all forgotten.

A couple of weeks later, I found one of his green bottles still stuck in the earth around the flowering tree.  I filled it with water and stuck it back in the same place.  A flower dropped and landed on the bottle.  I picked it up and put it to my nose and then went over to the rail and just stood for a while, admiring this tree I'd seen so many times in the past and yet had never really noticed until now.