It was a big crowd that showed up for the Drum Circle the last night of the US Open, possibly the largest of the summer.  I’d gone back to the camper to get my djembe drum and had ridden down Main Street on the Cruiser, pounding out a primal thump on my way back to the Pier Plaza. 

Every poltergeist within a five-mile radius was sure to be there.  They were leaving their stations outside of 7-Eleven, abandoning dumpsters, crawling out of the riverbed, making their way to the pier.  There was Big Steve with his bass drum, the Wizard making toilet paper swirls in the air, Mark the Shark, on his skateboard, shaking his death rattle.

Of course, right in the middle of it all was Fresno Joe, working the crowd.  Right away that upset me.  It almost made me leave.  Most poltergeists don’t bother me.  I’d been one of the worst of them in my time.  As long as they respect other people’s boundaries and don’t demand too much attention, I can sit and play music with them, provided we stick to the same beat, which isn’t always the case. 

Fresno Joe was already broadcasting, however, that everything was all about him.  He went over to the Frisco Kid, who was sitting on a wall with a bottle wrapped in a paper bag, and took a giant swig.  The Frisco Kid stood up and started kicking his feet from side to side, like a boy with wooden legs.  Then Joe turned around and started pulling all the vibes from the circle into his bare chest, demonstrating that his energy was only beginning to build.  Before long, he wouldn’t be able to contain himself.

It was then that I looked up on the top tier and happened to notice Santos, standing with his arms raised, like Moses in the battle against the Amalekites.  He was standing there in support of all the hungry ghosts in the world, both those seeking salvation and otherwise.  I went up to him, looking to vent about Fresno Joe, but he wasn’t having it.  Where I saw Joe as being a narcissist and conman of the highest order, Santos reminded me that he was a very sick individual who deserved all the love and understanding we could give him. 

I sat down with my drum, still irritated, and began to play.  There was a solid groove that everyone was locked into.  After a while I began to cool down, and see the world in a kinder light.  Fresno Joe was out there showing off, hogging the spotlight, waving his ass in the air, but at the end of the day didn’t he just want what we all wanted, to connect with others and find some place to belong?  Santos may have had a point.  Even so, I wasn’t about to run up and give him a hug anytime soon.  Instead, I just concentrated on the music.

The beat I was keeping on my drum was the same I’d been playing on my ukelele all week.  It was the tempo of the ocean, the rhythm of the waves.  I’d been hearing a new sound in my head since stopping by to see JC’s band the day before.  Ghost Country Surf.  The next record would be the follow up to Ghost on the Roam.  The ukelele, drums, bass, and pedal steel.  We’d try to keep it simple.

That evening the sun began to set and the sky turned gold.  It made black silhouettes of the palm trees.  There was only the slightest breeze.  The surf contest was over, but tomorrow would be another day.  Everyone would be moving on.  It was time to hit the waves.