< Life of Pi meets The Bachelor

Illth >

The Call

“Most befittingly, my salt-sprayed journey

of awakening began in a groggy, lazy,

half-conscious state.”

Most befittingly, my salt-sprayed journey of awakening began in a groggy, lazy, half-conscious state. I had just dozed off on my sofa, looking forward to a quick recharge from a short power nap before working on some new song ideas, when I got the call.

 

I hadn’t even been back in my apartment five minutes, drained from leading my popular Saturday morning family friendly ‘Community Music Circle’ at the Delray Beach green market. At this interactive musical experience, audience members, particularly young children, are encouraged to pick up any of a variety of percussion instruments provided by group players and join in on the groove.

 

The catchy islandy jams — blending African, Arabic, Caribbean, and Latin rhythm patterns — and the humorous, interactive, singalong style in which familiar tunes and original songs are performed make this unique public event a fun, lively, and engaging experience for kids and adults alike. Don't Worry, Be Happy was always a crowd favorite:

Here's a little song I wrote

You might want to sing it note for note
Don't worry, be happy

In every life we have some trouble
But when you worry you make it double

Don't worry, be happy

ooh.... 
 

Ain't got no place to lay your head
Somebody came and took your bed
Don't worry, be happy

The landlord say your rent is late
He may have to litigate

Don't worry, be happy

ooh.... 

 

Ain't got no cash, ain't got no style
Ain't got no gal to

Make you smile
Don't worry, be happy

'Cause when you worry your face will frown
And that will bring everybody down

So don't worry, be happy

ooh....

 

On this particular day, as it turns out, something very curious had happened.

It had been a sinfully beautiful, breezy, cool January morning — ‘deep winter’ in South Florida. A lovely young woman with an exquisite smile and wearing a simple colorful sarong, islandy straw hat, and no footwear of any kind joined our small musical group for a brief time. She appeared suddenly out of the dense crowd of sun-soaked shoppers to join us right in the middle of a song.

 

She sat on one of the extra chairs directly across from me and confidently strummed along on the small light blue ukulele she had pulled out of a colorful canvas shopping bag bursting with teal and magenta swirls. The adorable little baby guitar prominently featured a dark brown sculpted wooden bridge in the shape of a short, pudgy smiling dolphin. Too cute it was.

 

She was obviously no novice player — she perfectly blended in as we played a Latin jazz version of Big Yellow Taxi by Joni Mitchell. She was even inspired to harmonize with me at one point and did so most strikingly, and while looking right into my eyes, on the lyrics, ‘Don’t it always seem to go that you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.’

 

And then, just moments before the song ended, she winked at me in a very subtle manner, graced the rest of the group with a wide, warm smile, and got up quietly and disappeared back into the slowly moving mass of shoppers with their designer baby strollers and adorable furry companions tethered on colorful rainbow leashes.

 

Too bad. I would have liked to have gotten her name and found out if she was a local.

 

I’m sure I had never seen her at the market before. And I really needed to make some sense of that odd tingling sensation I felt all over my body just moments before she appeared that day  — I had never felt anything like that before. She would surely stop by again next Saturday, I convinced myself. I cleared my mind and snapped back into the moment. We wrapped up our jam around noon. After the usual post-performance banter with players, groupies, neophyte young drummers, and grateful parents, I headed home to enjoy a quick power nap before preparing for my afternoon gig.

That fateful call. I sat up on the sofa, shook my head a few times to snap my brain back into a semi-conscious state, and glared down at the offending phone. The small screen displayed ‘Unknown.’ Could it be the young woman with the cute little blue ukulele from the market? Had she gotten my number from someone and wanted to find out more about our lively musical gatherings on Saturdays? She obviously enjoyed playing along and seemed to fit right in with the other cheerful players who come out religiously every weekend to eagerly join our loose group of street musicians.

 

I would normally delegate the answering of such mystery calls to my trusty voicemail. But what if it was her? I should probably take the call.

 

I grunted,

 

“Hello.”

 

Whoa! … that voice. It most certainly was not the one I expected to hear. I hadn’t heard this voice in quite some time.

 

Memories flooded in. We had been weekend sailing buddies a couple of decades back (it’s been that long?), when we would compete to see who could ‘fly a hull’ for the longest time without dipping those glossy smooth fiberglass keels back in the water, or wiping out in spectacular fashion and ‘turning turtle’ the fast, nimble beach catamarans in most embarrassing, undignified ways.

 

Hobie Beach in Miami was the place to be on weekends back in the day. It didn't matter if you were a multi-millionaire or a beach bum (I was contentedly on the simple-living side of that spectrum), we were all equals in our shared passion for showing off wind-driven, rooster-tail wakes while flying gleaming ninja-blade hulls just inches above the choppy turquoise waters of breezy Biscayne Bay. Good times, good times…

 

They were different times back then, mind you. The world didn’t feel so busy, crowded, ... and strained. And multiple threats to the oceans and beaches I loved so dearly or growing doubts about the health and vitality of the U.S. mainland economy — offering so much promise and opportunity to so many — did not weigh heavily on me back then.

 

But that all started to change rather dramatically at the turn of the century — a growing uneasiness I could feel in my bones. And I was just starting to figure out why.

< Life of Pi meets The Bachelor

Illth >

​© 2020 Rich 'Rico' Leon