Did You Hear It Too?

By Srikar GT

While doom-scrolling today, I came across a reel posted by an account called DolphinDoug. It wasn’t just another reel I swiped past quickly. By the time it ended, it had taken me down memory lane.

Some interactions, encounters, and feelings can never be explained. They should only be felt. I still don’t know if the magic lies in the place, the person, or simply your state of mind. We often wonder what brings people into our lives. Usually, it’s work, college, social gatherings… our need to stay connected keeps us going. But this story isn’t about that.

This was something beyond logic. It found me when I wasn’t looking, but held me when I needed it the most. It came not as a person, but as sound waves, right when I was lost in my thoughts, trying to make sense of life.

It was February 2024. Many of my close friends had moved away. We were once a group, now scattered like feathers, the kind we used to press into notebooks as kids. I wasn’t lonely, but I wasn’t at peace either. I was just… in between. Life was slow, work felt dull, and nothing excited me.

The only thing that helped? The beach. Thankfully, I lived close to one of the best beaches in the country.

There’s something about the ocean and sunsets. Every time I feel low, I go sit by the water. Watching people, waves, and the sky makes my problems feel small. The ocean is messy too, but its mess is beautiful.

During those days, I would drive down to Laguna Beach after work. There’s a Starbucks near the parking area, and even the barista knew my order: a “Medicine Ball” tea. That drink became a small habit I looked forward to. Park the car, grab the tea, walk to the cliff near Picnic Beach. Even waiting at the signal before Laguna had its own mood, sometimes bright and full of tourists, sometimes grey and quiet. But the beach always felt the same.

People’s moods on the West Coast often follow the sunset. A good sunset meant more people. I didn’t know anyone there. It was just me and my tea, sitting in my regular spot.

Once you cross the signal, there’s a wooden path where people play basketball. What a spot to play, right by the ocean. I’d walk that path often, passing couples holding hands, kids seeing the sea for the first time, and old men slowly walking toward the water. Everyone had their own reason for being there.

I was just another one of them, chasing a sunset.

Once you walk past the wooden path, you’ll reach a set of steps that take you up along the walkway around the beach. It stretches all the way to the end of Picnic Beach. As you reach the top, there’s an art installation — a lady holding a drape over her head, as if it’s being lifted by the ocean breeze. The sculpture is made of metal and filled with colorful glass pieces. During sunset, the light passes through those colors and spills across the walkway like an abstract painting. It’s quiet, but beautiful.

You’ll always find a group of tourists there, leaning against the iron fence, clicking pictures of the sea. And every time I see them posing for photos with the beach behind them, I wonder. Does anyone notice this silent piece of art glowing with the sunset, shining along with different shades of sun?

Once you pass that walkway, you’ll head toward the gazebo on the edge. But before that, on the right, there’s a large Mexican restaurant with glass walls facing the beach. Even though I go to that area all the time, I’ve never been inside. It’s a little expensive. But I walk past it often, and I always notice different couples on dates. Some look effortless and joyful, others seem awkward and unsure. However their date or dinner goes, one thing stays the same. Their hope for a good sunset.

A little further ahead stands the gazebo, slightly raised and looking out over the water like it’s holding a secret. I’ve seen weddings there. Proposals. Birthday songs. And sometimes, just silence, with people leaning on the wooden rails, lost in the sound of waves.

And one day… something happened.

While I was walking, I heard a soft ukulele tune.
Then a voice sang: “Waimanalo… there’s no better place to be…”

It felt like someone was singing right into my ears. It wasn’t just a song. It was healing. Something I had never heard before. It was too good to ignore.

I followed the music.

I didn’t know what it was doing to me, but I had to find out where it was coming from.

It felt really calming. I reached the roundabout near Picnic Beach, where the steps go down to the ocean. That’s when I saw something different. There were three big JBL speakers placed on a wall, each one decorated with Hawaiian-style flower garlands.

Who set this up?

Then I saw him.

An old man, maybe around 62. He wore a sage green shirt with a park ranger vest over it. A cloth hat rested on his head. He had golden-rimmed glasses, a round face, and a camera in his hands, aimed at the ocean.

He was smiling, chatting with people who walked by. He looked so happy.

I walked closer, unsure how to start a conversation. But deep down, I felt like I needed to ask him why he was doing all this.

Isn’t it strange? While we’re busy worrying about visas and jobs, I always wonder what others around me are going through. What is this man living for?

My curiosity grew, but just as I got near him… I stopped.

I walked past him, too nervous to say anything.

I went home, but that song stayed with me.

I hated that I didn’t Shazam it. It kept playing in my head.

The next day, I was at work, still thinking about what happened at Laguna. I was curious. I wanted to see if he would be there again.

I finished my meetings early and drove to the beach. Same parking spot. Same Medicine Ball. Same walk.

But I didn’t notice that it wasn’t sunny. It was cloudy and dull, just like how I felt. He wasn’t there.

I searched the whole area, even walked across the cliff.

Nothing.

Maybe it was just a one-time thing. Maybe he doesn’t come every day.

But some tunes haunt us more than our own memories.

They stay, not as memories, but as something you’re still searching for.

And that one… felt like a lullaby.

After that day, I went on a trip and didn’t go to the beach for a couple of weeks. After coming back, one day while sitting in the office, I suddenly felt like going to the beach again. I went to the same Laguna Beach, parked at the same spot, and ordered the same Medicine Ball. I know it sounds boring, but not to me. There’s a kind of fun in doing the same thing over and over.

As I was walking along the ridge, I saw a young woman playing the violin. She was so passionate. I could feel it in the way her bow moved. She played like she was performing for a crowd of 2,000, and it filled the air with such a good mood.

As I walked past her and neared Picnic Beach, I saw him again. He was setting up his speakers that day. I stood there, waiting for him to start playing. Once the music began, I reached for my phone to Shazam it and go. But something held me back.

Why was I scared to talk to him? What was I afraid of? That he wouldn’t talk back? That he might be rude? All these thoughts felt so stupid. They weren’t coming from my gut. They were coming from learned fear. Knowledge sometimes builds fear. But intuition? It’s always in tune with nature.

So I walked up to him.

“Hey, I have a question. What is this music?” I asked. (I instantly felt how boring that sounded.)
He reached out and shook my hand — a firm, intense handshake. My hand felt small inside his.

Doug: “Isn’t it amazing?” he said, eyes lit with wonder. I could see he truly meant it.

Me: “Yes, it is indeed.”

Doug: “Thank you. I love this music. It’s Hawaiian.”

Me: “Oh really? I’ve never heard anything like it. I’d love to follow this artist.”

Doug: “You should. There’s something magical about this music. I feel like nature poured it into the hearts of Hawaiian people. On a stranded island, they created a whole genre by themselves. That’s why I play it at the beach. Sunset and this music, it’s bliss.”

I was in awe. He wasn’t just playing music. He was sharing a feeling. And now I understood. He comes out whenever there’s a beautiful sunset, plays Hawaiian music, talks to people, and takes some photos. Simple? Maybe. Purposeful? Who knows. But it brought him joy.

He showed me his photography. Most of the time, he clicked random things, dolphins if he was lucky, or silhouettes of people standing on the ridge in front of him. He didn’t pose anyone. Just moments. That made him happy.

And it made me think about childhood. We were so joyful as kids. Did we have any purpose then? I didn’t. But I was happy. Joy comes from the things we want to do, not what we have to do. Doug reminded me of that.

I asked him, “How often do you come here?”

Doug: “Whenever there’s a good sunset.”

Me: “How do you know when that’ll happen?”

Doug: “There’s a website called Laguna Live Cam. I check it. If the sunset looks great, I come.”

From that day, we became sunset buddies. We didn’t know each other personally. We weren’t connected on social media. But we were connected through sunsets and music.

I started following Laguna Live Cam too. I’d go to the beach, and most days I’d find him at the same spot. I’d sit beside him, listen to his stories, meet others who had become his sunset buddies too. We’d talk, share moments, and watch the sunset together, Hawaiian music playing in the background.

Doug had become my friend. We were generations apart, but somehow, we shared so many stories like old roommates of the same world.

He was a war veteran. He had seen life, death, love, pain, and countries shift in color and mood. But here’s what amazed me. Every story he shared was filled with life. He never spoke in a sad tone. Not once. Every experience, even the heavy ones, he told with a sense of learning, like life had just handed him another story worth telling.

He talked about wild parties from his youth, friends he had made in all corners of the world. And eventually, he introduced me to some of them, people of all ages, some much younger, some older, all united by sunsets and Doug’s music.

Every sunset from then on became something more than just light hitting the sky.

It was a memory. A little story. A shared laugh.

Isn’t that insane?

What if I never talked to him?

What if I hadn’t followed the music that day?

I would’ve missed all of it, Doug, the stories, the sunsets we shared, the songs we exchanged.

We talked about cultures, feelings, ideas. We sat side by side but stayed detached in a way that was peaceful. We existed only on the ridge. Once the sunset ended, we vanished from each other’s lives until the next one.

I even introduced a couple of my friends to him. He loved people.

He loved talking to strangers and listening to their stories.

I resonated with that deeply.

He had massive respect for every culture, every walk of life. Days passed. Sunsets rejoiced. And then, one day after about three months of sharing that space, he dropped a bombshell:

“I’m moving to Indonesia. For good.”

It hit harder than I expected. Not because I didn’t want him to go, but because it reminded me how temporary even the most beautiful things can be.

That day, we hugged. We took a selfie, me, Doug, and another sunset friend.
I asked him, “Who’s going to play the music now?” He smiled and said,

“Keep watching sunsets. Maybe it’s you, or someone who will share this.”

And just like that, I never saw him again.

But Doug had already done his magic. He introduced me to a whole new genre of music. New ways to enjoy the beach. A new perspective to navigate life with, slowly, consciously, with joy even in the mundane.

He became a metaphor.

A reminder that everything moves on. And even the saddest goodbyes carry the brightest memories.

So, that reel I saw today, the one that started all of this, had photos Doug had taken from our usual sunset spot on the ridge. Silhouettes of random couples. Strangers locked in moments. And at the very end… our selfie.

Me, Doug, and a sunset friend.

Sometimes, unexpected encounters leave behind the most beautiful things.

We spend so much of our lives seeking logic, trying to engineer outcomes, chase plans, control stories before they unfold. But life doesn’t work that way. Not really.

After all, aren’t our best friends often the most random people we meet?

Not chosen. Not calculated. Just happened.

What place does logic even have in a life that’s constantly changing?

The more we try to design it, the more mundane it becomes. The more we go with it, the more we let life flow the way Doug did, the more we find treasure buried in the ordinary, and time that feels like it stands still.

Doug didn’t give me advice.

He gave me perspective.

He taught with sunsets, stories, and the space between songs.

And that’s the thing.

Life will never tell you when someone important is entering.

It will just play a quiet song one evening…

And ask if you’re listening.