“That’s a nice setup,” I heard as I looked up from my small camp chair, Thermos of tomato bisque in hand, a fresh mouthful of baguette.
I was on the observation deck at Point Reyes Lighthouse. After overcoming the human embarrassment of having to chew very quickly and awkwardly climbing out of my tiny seat, I greeted the speaker.
“Oh yeah, uh (cough, choke a little), thanks—I’ve got my soup, my tea, my biscuits, my chair…” I reeled off, before recognizing that they hadn’t actually asked for a full inventory of my backpack. They graciously smiled, laughed a kind laugh, and I stopped listing everything I had.
“You’ve got the right idea,” they replied, “I need to get a setup like that.” Good, okay—steady conversational ground (no thanks to me).
They were three friends that I didn’t learn the names of until we finished speaking, and that I instantly forgot moments later. I didn’t forget because I don’t care (I’m writing about them after all), I’ve just always been terrible with names. I even tried to help myself by repeating each name aloud, one by one, as they were told to me.
At least one of them—and perhaps all of them—had come from L.A. and had hoped to visit the lighthouse for the past 5 years. Finally, they’d made it! Ever the showboat, though, the fog had rolled in, obscuring just about everything you might hope to see—including the lighthouse.
Several other visitors came and left, assuming that the fog was here to stay, and that there was no point in hanging around in the cold. These three friends were different, though. They stayed for over an hour, enjoying the fog (as it should be enjoyed) and holding out hope that it would part—at least for a moment—to reveal the hidden sights.
Despite my earlier baguette-mouthed fumbles, we continued to chat—all four of us—about all sorts of things. I told them I was there to write, and they asked if I was a writer. “Yeah, uh, well sort of… I publish a blog post every day,” I stammered. “I journal… do you journal?”
A paper journal appeared from a pocket, and it was amazing—filled with writing, illustrations and pages of collage. I loved it, and I loved that they were carrying it around with them. I had my journal, too.
We talked about what books we’d write if we were to write one. “Romance,” said one, because they were a romantic and romanticized moments (as you might expect from someone staring into the fog at a lighthouse). “A fable,” said another, because it was far more interesting to convey something in that way—the long way; the poetic way.
We talked about the internet, and how it used to be better when you had to be really intentional about spending time there. We remembered the screeching, gargling sound of getting online, and how it sounded like the internet had to endure some sort of physical pain to provide the service. How paying by the minute made you spend fewer minutes.
At one point enough of the fog cleared to present the long stretch of South Beach, and one of the friends pulled out an amazing camera to take a few photos. “You’re a photographer,” I said, trying to phrase it less like a question and more like an observation. “No, uh, it’s just for fun really… something I picked up a few months ago—four or five months ago.”
They went on to tell me that they’re from an indigenous community, and that they wanted to preserve the stories and the memories of the elders. “The next time I visit, you know, they might not be there.” It was such a wonderful idea—the kind that warms your heart; that makes you glad to be human. “I think that you might be a photographer,” I said.
I pulled the biscuits out of my backpack and offered one to each of the friends. Witnessing their confused expressions, I quickly added “oh, British biscuits, not…” and the expressions softened. “Oh, like cookies,” one of them suggested, to which I replied “yeah, exactly” but thought “no, not really.” I’d brought McVitie’s dark chocolate digestives.
We looked into the fog as we ate our biscuits, and a couple of us coughed the small coughs that come with eating a dry biscuit sans-tea. Why hadn’t I poured a cup for myself? Why hadn’t I brought enough cups for all of us? I couldn’t have a cup without offering one to the others.
More moments passed. A brief glimpse of the lighthouse. A little more of South Beach. A few more conversations about writing and art and life. Finally, though, it was time for the friends to depart.
I’ve got a terrible habit of trying to romanticize just about everything in the universe, and had probably spent the past hour sounding very pretentious. One of the friends said (surprisingly earnestly) “I feel like you’re a wise man in the fog.” We joked about it, suggesting they’d turn around and I’d have disappeared into the fog, never to be seen again.
Of course, all I’d actually done is what I—a British human man—always do when meeting new people: acted a little awkward, tried to be a little funny, and attempted to sound a little interesting. Less of a wise man in the fog, unfortunately, and more of a wise-guy in the fog.
These three friends, they felt as though they’d become my friends—at least for this moment; for a little more than an hour. I knew things about them that endeared me to them. I’d learned about projects that I couldn’t wait to see out there in the world. They were kind, and funny, and so interesting. They liked chocolate digestives (maybe).
We parted ways without sharing proper contact information, and as I looked into the fog after they left, I wondered if I should have asked. If I ever get to speak with them again, I’ll be thrilled, but it’s also just fine if I don’t. For this moment, on this day, we were four friends in the fog.