Went to the beach last night, brought my journal to do some writing. Found an empty picnic table beneath a huge Australian Pine, its mighty branches forming a broad canopy above.
The wind was whipping, Hurricane Hanna is somewhere out in the Bahamas, headed in our general direction. Had to grasp the pages of the journal, lest Hanna take them tearing.
Heard rustling behind me, turned to see a woman propping her bag onto the table, then another. She looked at me, eyes inquisitive. “Sure”, I said, “You’re welcome to share the table”.
Three of her friends arrive with a mix of posessions; two bikes, two beach chairs and a medley of bags. One of the crew comes right over, stricking up a conversation.
David’s his name, a great smile half full of teeth. His happiness is infectious, and midstream he goes to the table next to us, a table full of young black men drinking and jumping around looking restless. Not my first pick for introductions, but David sauntered over with the comfort of one who sees everyone as his brother, comes back with a cold beer in his hand seconds later. I’m impressed.
He askes me for some money to pitch in for dinner, I envision their meal being of a liquid nature. I pull some bills out of my pocket; a ten and two ones. He eyes the ten, I give him the ones.
Minutes later he returns with a 6 pack of 16 ounce cans. The surprise is he offers me one, and I accept.
They’re a loose pod of compadres; David, his ‘sweetie’ Mommy, D and her husband JT. David’s Cuban, Mommy’s Haitian and D and JT are African American. They shared how they deal with life and the impending storm.
A car turns in the parking lot, sweeping our table with its headlights. With the alertness of a hunting tribe, they turn in unison, assessing the situation. The car continues and the conversation returns. Just like that.
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