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In the summer of 1990, I returned to San Diego.
I had technically sublet a bedroom in University City, but I rarely used it.
Most nights, I ended up on the faded blue sofa in Mike and Sawyer’s sunlit living room—perched above the Del Mar Rivermouth.
They lived there with their girlfriends—Mike with Kim, Sawyer with Megan—and the house had taken on the feel of an unspoken family that had quietly evolved while I was gone.
I drifted into it without resistance.
Mornings were for surfing.
Afternoons for burritos and naps.
Evenings dissolved into salt air and laughter.
Mike and Kim still tease me about those days.
After surfing, I’d tear into a carne asada burrito from Roberto’s, lick the wrapper clean, and collapse on their pale couch.
I’d wake hours later, sweat-soaked, shirt clinging to my back, mumbling about the heat while the fabric absorbed my salt-streaked body.
That fall, I moved into a studio in Encinitas—a sleepy town along Highway 101.
My 300-square-foot unit at the Red Roof Apartments sat between a flower shop and a surfboard store.
So small I could step from the shower into the kitchen.
But it was close to the beach.
And it was cheap.
D‑Street became my playground.
Almost every morning, as long as there was swell, I’d jog barefoot down the street and paddle out, braving the icy Pacific in winter and spring.
I’d surf until my feet went numb, then run home, thaw out in the shower, and sprint across the alley to the Potato Shack.
Jim, the grizzled owner, ran it like a locker room.
Nicole, the waitress with the long blonde hair and quick wit, would smile when I arrived.
$3.50 for all‑you‑can‑eat potatoes.
On special days: banana‑walnut pancakes, bigger than my head.
I had built a rhythm.
Surf. Eat. Study. Sleep. Repeat.
I picked up a part‑time job at Ray’s Automotive, a one‑man shop nearby.
Ray was slender, smoked constantly, and spoke like someone who’d seen everything and still didn’t mind fixing it.
I cleaned. Changed oil.
Used the lift when I needed to work on my beat‑up Dodge D100—a retired Forestry truck I’d picked up with student loan money and a little luck.
Then it started missing.
Losing power on the hills.
Something sounded off—a hesitation, a knock.
I didn’t know what it was, but I knew it wasn’t good.
I called Barry—three thousand miles away in New York.
We talked through every symptom.
He helped me trace the possibilities, one by one.
Told me where to find the aftermarket service manual.
I picked up a copy and started reading—crude black‑and‑white diagrams, their grainy lines like a map to the inner workings of something I had always trusted, but never understood.
Ray didn’t have to say yes.
But he did.
He let me use the lift, the tools, the space.
I hadn’t earned it with words.
I’d earned it by being there.
I pulled the valve covers, then the head.
Carefully. Methodically.
I labeled the bolts.
Set the rocker arms aside in order.
I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for, but I trusted the process.
Eventually, I found it—a stuck lifter.
Not carbon buildup.
Just a part that had seized.
I replaced them all.
When I turned the key and heard the engine catch, I felt it.
Not relief. Not triumph.
Just the satisfaction of finding what was broken—and fixing it.
School taught me to manage.
Fixing taught me to move the needle.
To feel capable.
Barry had given me that.
On my eighteenth birthday, he got me a motorcycle—a 1978 Honda CB750 with a black Kerker exhaust that howled like a beast.
I taught myself to ride it while he was at work.
Quiet streets.
Ever‑widening laps around the block.
One day, I took a curve too fast.
The bike slid out under me.
I crashed near a tree line—maybe twenty feet from impact.
I called Barry.
He came without judgment.
We loaded the bike into the van.
On the way home, he broke it down like a flight incident.
Analytical. Curious. Focused on what could be learned.
But there was also a sound—a ticking, somewhere in the bike.
Barry was sure it was a transmission issue.
We disassembled the whole thing.
Hundreds of parts.
Cookie sheets laid out across the table, each one holding mechanical jewels—gears, shafts, bearings—spire‑like in their precision, their polished surfaces streaked with fingerprints and grease.
Barry led the diagnosis—methodical, precise.
But we got it wrong.
Spent weeks chasing the wrong culprit.
In the end, it was a fifteen-dollar sprocket.
Rear wheel. Simple fix.
All that analysis.
All those gleaming gears.
The engine was never the problem.
We still talk about it.
Many readers have told me they set aside time for each chapter, letting it echo into their own lives. If the bell rings in you, consider passing it on—someone else may be listening for the same tone. And if you’d like, leave your reflections below; your voice adds another note to the resonance.