Journal Entry — Morro Bay
JR was already up when I surfaced. Coffee going. Radio open on the table, its back panel off and a nest of wires spilling out like it had given up trying to stay contained. He stood over it in his socks, unconcerned that it didn’t work yet.
“Morning,” he said, without looking up.
“Morning.”
The coffee was strong enough to reset things. We drank it in silence while the harbor came awake around us. Engines coughing to life. Lines creaking. A gull landing hard on the rail and pretending it meant to.
“If we’re going to ask around,” JR said finally, “earlier’s better.”
We took the skiff in while the air was still cool. Fog lifting just enough to show outlines without detail. JR handled the tiller easily, distracted mid-thought, then correcting course without breaking stride in his sentence. He’d always been like that—mind three steps ahead, body where it needed to be.
Red Tide’s boat was where JR said it would be. Slip neat. Lines right. Nothing left hanging or unattended. It looked like someone who expected to come back. No sense of abandonment. No rush.
I didn’t touch anything.
JR pointed out a small detail—an old tour sticker peeling near the stern, sun-bleached enough that you had to know what you were looking at to recognize it.
“He’s been around,” JR said.
That was all.
The marina manager was already tired of the day, even though it had barely started. He knew Red Tide the way managers know people who don’t cause problems—by absence of incident.
“Pays on time,” he said. “Keeps to himself. Boat hasn’t moved.”
“Anybody been looking for him?” JR asked.
The manager shrugged. “Not officially.”
As we turned to go, he added, almost as an afterthought, “Guy used to play with some heavy hitters.”
“Who?” I asked.
He shrugged again. “King. Waters. That whole stretch.”
He said it the way someone mentions a past job. Interesting, but not actionable.
The clubhouse was already filling with its usual mix—older men, paper cups, the same chairs claimed by the same people. Red Tide’s name came up without prompting.
“Opened for B.B. once,” someone said.
“Didn’t open,” another replied. “Sat in.”
A third shook his head. “Did more than that.”
No one argued hard. They’d already had this conversation before, years ago. It had settled into whatever version worked best for each of them.
We walked through town after that. Posters in windows, some so faded they were more suggestion than record. Red Tide’s name appeared low on a bill from decades back. Not highlighted. Just present.
“He was better known than he wanted to be,” JR said.
I believed him.
Lunch was at a place near the water. Staff remembered Red Tide without effort. Same order. Same seat if it was open.
“He was here last week,” one of them said. “Said see you next week.”
Nothing about that sounded like goodbye.
The barber shop was quiet except for the radio. Someone asked if Red Tide was back on the road.
The barber didn’t look up.
“Road doesn’t need him anymore,” he said.
There was a pause.
“But it used to.”
That sat with us as we left.
By late afternoon we hadn’t learned anything dramatic. No fights, no warnings, no sudden changes. Just a man who had been exactly where he was supposed to be—until he wasn’t.
Back on the skiff, JR started to say something, then stopped. Let the engine fill the space instead.
The harbor was louder now. Music drifting from shore. Boats settling into their places for the night.
Reputation explained why people noticed his absence. It didn’t explain the absence itself.
Not yet.
Sand Rating: 5 / 10
Condition: Firm, compacted, scuffed near the waterline
— BG
Travel light. Swing hard.
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