West Bound Road: A Series of Absurd Essays About A Journey to the Coast (7)

The Moment of Yes

I needed a break. I needed a moment to think. I needed to call out in the middle of the week. I needed to wander, and perhaps I needed to get lost. So I did. When the burden of work was released, I slipped on my favorite sweats, a T-shirt, and picked up my camera. I was headed to the beach to think, not that thinking was going to do me any good and perhaps it would only cause me trouble, but think I would and whatever came of it would keep from being at home, cooped up all day.


Finding a parking spot on a weekday isn't so hard to do, then again this was San Diego and even in February the 60-some odd degree weather and a slight breeze is enough to bring even the most stubborn bear out of hibernation. I made my way down the boardwalk, jumped over the wall and dug my toes into the sand. The sound of the crashing waves kept my attention and I felt like I was able to breathe - slowly, in through my nose, out through my lips, closed eyes and sense of rest passed over me.


But as I continued walking down the beach, I heard voices singing. This was Ocean Beach, there were always buscars about and a hobo sitting audience. Of course, this time, the voices I heard were multiple and harmonizing. Curious, I approached the group of ragged musicians - they were jamming to the beats of Bob Marley's "One Love" and traded off guitars, a shaker, and a djembe. I couldn't tear myself away, and frankly I didn't want to - from Bob Marley to jams to the Spanish singer and others encouraged everybody to "keep on movin'," -- I was practically drooling over the fantastic scene of talent and joy that came out of their vocals.


I found a spot on the wall near the musicians, tossed my flip-flops aside and faced the water. I could have sat there all day just listening to music and watching the waters tumble underneath the pier.


Finally, the music stopped long enough for me to lean over and tell them how great I thought they sounded. One of the boys, peered back at me from under his long curly hair, smiled and said, "thank you so much." He reached out his hand which I eagerly shook and introduced himself.


I asked if they lived in the area. No, he told me, they were from New York, he and two others he pointed out. They were The Band and had come to Southern California to find fans and friends, living off the good graces of strangers.


Introductions went all the way around and eventually I met the Spanish singer, blond hair, tall and talented. He wasn't part of The Band, but he was a local musician, a starving one at that - working for a catering company by day and making his way around San Diego with a guitar at night. His bright attitude and hippie sticks kept us in conversation even after the band kept playing. He'd brought crackers and carrots which he willingly shared and we swapped stories about our roots.


After realizing I still had my camera with me, I grabbed a few pictures and figured I'd throw it up on my blog. It couldn't hurt to show a little support, truth was, I didn't have a dime on me to throw into the guitar case, which honestly is what the band was really hoping for -- they had to manage to eat and fill their purple van with gas...somehow.


The afternoon ended with an invitation to join the boys at a bar and the conclusion that I had finally made a few new friends. The place I'd come to find myself and get lost was becoming home - and it was only the beginning.