Roy Orbison
I’m not sure of the year; had to be late 1950s, early ’60s. I do know it was summertime when I had a chance encounter with Roy Orbison.
DOWN TO THE SEA
Every summer of my childhood, from the end of June through Labor Day, my parents rented a room in one of the old manor houses along Beach 14th Street in Far Rockaway, New York. This was a welcome break from our humdrum existence in a drab tenement apartment in The Bronx. The ocean being a few blocks away, I got to swim all summer, and I often fished off one of the rock jetties.
Sometimes, on the not-so-sunny days, I went down to the practically deserted beach to just sit on the sand and gaze out at the sea, contemplating the universe or some such thing. It was on a day such as this that a big black car pulled up on the nearby street and disgorged what I recall were three men. They wore suits…not exactly beach wear. Curious—but wary—as they walked down to the beach, I watched them approach. That’s when I recognized the man in the middle, the one wearing the sunglasses. It dawned on me in an instant: Roy Orbison had come to my beach!
What was this rock legend doing there? I had no idea. He sat down on a piling as the other men—bodyguards, I suppose—fell back a couple of yards. One of them stared at me as if to say, “Don’t even think of coming over here.” Okay, I didn’t, but I did watch Roy as he—guess what—gazed out at the sea, same thing I was doing. Wow!
He stayed for a short while, and then was gone. For the rest of that summer I had a great story to tell anyone who would listen.