Ocean Beach and the Haste Theatre Girls

Sunday 29th June

I finally manage to break free from the demands of the rehearsal room on Sunday when I decide I want to see Oyster Boy by Haste Theatre Company playing out in Ocean Beach on the north west coast of San Diego.

Sophie, I had contacted via email and then Skyped earlier in spring to find out about performing at the San Diego Fringe Festival, which she had done last year with her company to great acclaim. We had messaged each other and tried to meet during rehearsals as they were also at APA Studios but our times hadn’t coincided.

I set out at 10.30am and just miss a bus as it turns the corner as I emerge onto the main street and in my usual London mode, start to run for it. But being America, it is on the other side of the road and of course it departs before I can board. When I read the timetable I am appalled to discover the next one isn’t for a half hour. I decide to go and get a smoothie or fruit juice at Senor Mango’s to relax and calm down. Today is a special ‘Taste of Adams Avenue’ food fair and I am tempted to just stay in the area and treat myself to a wonderful culinary extravaganza! A beautiful blonde American girl in hot pants with the slimmest possible toned figure arrives with her floppy haired boyfriend. I ask if they are taking part in the ‘Taste of Adams Avenue’ and she says no but she wishes they were. I tell her I am here for the Fringe Festival and mention my show and ask if they are fans of Marilyn Monroe? “She is,” he says. “She’s got posters of her all over her bedroom!” I hand them a flier and hope I have at least two audience members interested in seeing my show.

We sit and watch as a guy starts to drive off having left his smoothie on the roof of his car until someone spoils the fun by alerting him through his open window.

At 11am I walk back over to catch the 11.05 bus and wait for at least ten minutes then as I board and ask for Broadway I’m told he is heading the other way, I’m on the wrong side of the road! I cross over to the other bus stop to find I’ve missed that bus as it left around 10.50am and the next one is not for another half hour. I suddenly lose the will to live and seriously contemplate staying put and doing the food fest. I walk to a different number bus stop and find there is a twenty-minute wait for the bus.

I am cursing and pacing when a large, jovial road sweeper in florescent orange waistcoat and trousers with a baseball cap starts sweeping up around me. “Service not too good on a Sunday, ha?”

“No shit” I replied.

“Yes, kind of feels like the Twilight Zone, doesn’t it?”

I tell him I missed a bus by thirty seconds then wait half an hour for the next one only to find its going in the wrong direction and then come here to find I missed the bus by fifteen minutes. He says “Look over there” I look, “Wave, you’re on Candid Camera” he laughs. “Are you in a hurry”? He asks.

“I was” I tell him, “But now I’m kind of loosing the will to live!”

“ Why don’t you just stay here”? he asks. “There’s the Taste of Adams Avenue food fair on today”

“I’m seriously considering it” I tell him.

The call of all those restaurants and taking the little trolley bus between them and the people I might meet here sounds very tempting. Yet I did tell Sophie from Haste Theatre that I would make their last show today at Ocean Beach Playhouse at 2pm.

“It could be worse” he says, “It could be raining. You’ve got a beautiful day to gather your thoughts.”

All my thoughts are on how my morning is fast disappearing!

“Well, have a good day“ he says, cheerfully.

“Yes, you too” I reply. He finishes sweeping up the litter and deposits his shovel and broom upside down on the back of his funny little refuse van and with a wave climbs in and pulls away.

Here’s a guy who clearly loves his job and has the right attitude to life. I do regret now not asking if I could take his photograph. He was a kindly character and cheered my spirits, turning round my frame of mind, for that I shall be most grateful.

Eventually a bus turns up and I head into town getting off outside Spreckels Theatre and pop in to see Todd who is busy working away fixing sixty five year old Art Deco style seats found in the basement onto raised platforms to make tears for the audience in the new Raw Space. “Get my haversack from the office” he tells me. I’ve come down without much idea where to get the 35 bus from. He takes out his laptop and googles bus travel for me.

“You’re going to have to get the trolley to Old Town in order to catch the 35 bus from there to get over to Ocean Beach. You’ll have to hurry! It could take you an hour and a half! There’s one leaving at 1pm. Go, now”, he shouts. Thank goodness I did. I take directions to find the trolley then get lost and ask someone. At the other end of Broadway is a station but it’s quite a wait and the trolley of course is late. Time is ticking and suddenly I feel like Harold Lloyd, caught up in a crazy race against the clock to get across town in one of his old black and white movies.

The first tram to arrive is not the one I want but I get it anyway since it goes to a station over the road from the Santa Fe Depot. I dash across to this wonderful old colonial style, imposing train station. It is built to last; an Arts and Craft cathedral of travel. It has oak arched doors and windows, parquetry floor, Edwardian Moorish style tiling and a vast double height vaulted arched ceiling, suspended with double rows of circular bronze ceiling lights on chains. It’s like something out of India and another era altogether.

It originally opened in 1915 to accomodate passengers to the Panama-California Exposition. Designed by San Francisco architects Bakewell and Brown as a “Monumental reminder” of California’s Spanish heritage to match the grand Colonial Revival architecture of the Exposition.

Santa Fe Depot

I run along to find the right platform and swipe in with my newly charged day pass. As the trolley arrives I climb aboard. It’s high up and I’m amazed to find it has an old fashioned air about it too, even thought they must be very new.

I’m clock watching with every stop as it’s ten to 1pm. After a while it trundles into the Old Town and I run off to try and find the bus station to catch a 35 bus to Ocean Beach. The bus station is divided either side of the tram lines and of course the bus stop I want is on the other side of the tracks. How on earth do I get there? I’m looking for a footbridge to get across without having to go right into the station. I ask a few random people. Luckily someone points out there is an underpass. It is now 1pm. I decide to run. I see the bus and dash for it, ensuring it doesn’t depart without me. “Is this the bus to Ocean Beach”? “Yes”. “What time do you leave”? “1pm”. It is that now. I swipe and sit. It’s quite busy with a real mix of passengers some old and chatty.

A loud-mouthed cynical old American is shouting across at someone about landlords and living in hostels, about how bad the beds are and making political swipes. Eventually I am compelled to look round and see it is actually a big Indian looking guy in the back seat shouting into a mobile. I wonder if there is actually anyone on the other end or whether he just uses this to vent off into. Quite clever as people wouldn’t immediately judge him to be quite the nutter I suspect he might be at first.

After about fifteen minutes of putting the world to rights I notice the call is ended. He must simply have been offloading to some poor mate of his. He gets off the bus at the next stop, turns back, looking furious.

The road takes me through outer city suburban sprawl, sand and ochre coloured villas perched high on hills, tall palms, then modest apartment blocks, small prefabs, a seaside community of yellow painted shacks and retail areas, all rather pedestrian and unprepossessing. Finally a glimpse of the ‘Ocean Playhouse’ sign and I know where to alight.

I walk down a street behind the theatre, which leads to the sea to get an overview of the place. No sooner do I get half way down, when I suddenly spot Sophie with the other Haste Theatre girls dressed in their distinctive old fashioned blue and white striped bathing costumes, lined up in front of what appears to be the other side of the theatre. A loud American blonde shrieks in a foghorn voice in front of me, and dashes over to greet Sophie, introducing her friends just as I am about to cross the street and meet her for the first time, ruining my entrance! I wait, then go over to say hello for the first time since we Skyped one another a few weeks back. She is charming and tiny with a head of wild red hair. She introduces me to Elly, a lovely tall blonde who stares into my eyes and smiles warmly as I shake her by the hand and wave at the others who are lined up fliering passers by. “How many of you are there”? I ask, a little overwhelmed. “Six” she says proudly. “Blimey”, I say. “That’s quite a troupe”!

They start singing acapella in harmony and I film them on my iphone. It is like being serenaded back in time to another more innocent and charming era with the smiles and hopes of six pretty, beguiling young women confidently setting out on the sea of life together. Who could fail but to be seduced by their brand of nostalgic charm?

I say I’ll see them later and walk further down towards the sea when I see a great long line of people queuing up along the pavement to buy beef burgers at a café. I dash back to inform the girls they would be better off targeting the queue than waiting for the odd random passer by to capture with their singing and marketing. They have vanished. I go inside and catch Elly, who gives me that amazing smile as I relay my findings. “Oh, I’ll tell the others but I think we’ve run out of time and are getting ready now, but thanks for telling us. They’ve always got a big queue there”. I tell her I’ll see her later. Another Haste girl, Jesse, with pretty eyes, asks if I’ll be staying around for a drink later?

I walk down to the seafront and hear an extraordinarily angry rendition from a young busker sat on the seawall putting his heart and soul into singing and attacking the strings of his guitar. I decide to video this too and am delighted when a string of beach goers start to pass between us. So there is a steady traffic of surfers with their boards, walkers, cyclists, skate boarders and runners etc but the cacophony of noise builds as the wind, motorbikes, cars and aircraft nearly drowned him out. Afterwards, he switches off, hangs his head down as though nothing had happened. But I know differently. I ask his name. “Patrick” he says disinterestedly, as he drops a few CD’s he’s recorded from his hands onto the floor. A guy sat next to him in a brown leather hoodie had tried to keep up on ukulele and another guy is laid out on his back asleep on the seawall. Perhaps they are travellers or locals. I was thrilled to be able to catch this on video.

The soft white sand is punctuated here and there by the highlight of red umbrellas and traffic cones, sun-bathers, seagulls and surfers in bikinis or shorts with their boards. It has a kind of shabby, hippy, drop out atmosphere about it not unlike Margate I suspect, though much less grand. I wish I had more time to assimilate the place before the show. I notice antique shops and centres along the high street along with the eateries, gift shops and bars. But I head back to buy a $10 ticket to see Oyster Boy. The Ocean Playhouse Theatre was probably built in the early 20^th century and has a faded splendour about it. The sort of seaside theatre that feels like it might once have been at the end of a pier and crawled back up the high street for safety. It is a good size auditorium with a raised stage swathed in black cloth and large Turkish carpets on the floor with fold away chairs in rows, draped in black. There are side wall benches with Indian silk cushions and small circular cabaret style tables. I decide to sit on here and catch up writing my journal. There is an audience of about thirty; not bad at all for a Sunday matinee in a hard to reach out of town venue. Music is playing while we are kept waiting some time for Haste Theatre.

When the lights come up and they enter it is like watching something that one’s grandparents may have enjoyed at a Vaudeville end of the pier show. Much charm and simplicity in physical movement and use of blue cloth for the sea and model boats on top, hiding behind red and white striped seaside tents, puppetry, singing and a child like sense of fun and frolics mixed with poignancy.

After the show I wait around and flier and meet a few of their acolytes, some of whom caught the troupe last year. A group of girls wait for them to emerge which takes an age. When they do they drift straight into the nearest pub, which is the pretty awful Irish pub directly opposite. It’s the usual barn of a place with sport TV’s and some World Cup match playing live where a cheer breaks out occasionally throughout the afternoon. I chat with Sophie and the others arrange themselves around a large central table so we join them.

I am convinced that two of the girls, Jesse and Elena, almost identical to one another on stage, wearing their hair in matching pig tails, must not only be sisters but perhaps twins?

“Well, one is British and the other is Italian!” I am informed. Now I see her off stage, Elena is obviously Italian with her raven mane of hair and those dark, soulful Italian eyes. Though she is perhaps the quietest and self contained of the girls. Valeria is more typically Italian, gregarious and gesturally warm offering hugs and voluptuous embraces. She is more completely transformed than anyone off stage, playing the father in Oyster Boy with short floppy black hair which must have been a wig. Her own hair is dyed a brilliant scarlet that is shocking in its wild vividness. My next guess is that Jesse must have Portuguese blood with her perfect almond eyes and strong curved nose very much a give away. Wrong again. She’s the English one!

Eventually we emerge and finally I get chatting to Elly and flirt as we make our way to the beach. She is sun kissed with freckles, has gold spun hair and sparkling sapphire blue eyes. She seems to have this curious hypnotic way of staring deep into one’s eyes where to look away would be an act of sabotage. She speaks with a beautiful cut glass English accent and is warm and engaging. “You must be a northerner?” I ask after her convincing northern accent in the play. “I used to live in Manchester and studied in Lancaster” she confesses. I tell her I’m from Whitby, which she reacts to with fondness as most people tend to do having holidayed there at one time or another. We get ahead of everyone and suddenly find ourselves on our own as we turn around to look for them.

Paul is the mysterious seventh member of Haste who is there in the background to keep them all in order. He is the roadie or their technical manager who deals with all their troubleshooting. Tall and lanky with a beard, in shorts and baseball cap, he feels like their slightly surly older brother who must have a tough job as the only male of the company keeping them all in line. I tease Elly that they must take turns in flirting with him to keep his interest.

Dino is a friendly, Latino looking improvisation performer who wears his long hair in a pony tail under his blue bandana and knows the girls from last year. He has a thick Hispanic accent, which the girls tease him over. He hangs out after the show like me and suggests a game of boulle on the beach, which he has in his car but then someone else suggests a game of Frisbee, which I leap at. I remove my shoes and socks and roll my trouser legs up “like a true Englishman” I say. This is my first step on an American beach and it feels great to finally have soft sand beneath my feet.

Elly takes out a red Frisbee from her bag and a small group of us are soon spread out over the beach throwing it to one another and enjoying the beach atmosphere. There is a pier of sorts which juts straight out into the sea. “Come on Whitby” Elly shouts when I miss the Frisbee embarrassingly and the only time I make the sea all holiday is when I have to retrieve someone’s  throw from the waves!

The sky becomes dramatic with a gathering cloud subduing the Californian sun over the sea. Our Frisbee group dwindles as others drift to the seawall and I go over to see who fancies something to eat. We agree it might be a good idea though no one is looking to spend much money. Pizza and beer are mentioned but having had the best pizza and beer two days running this week I really fancy some seafood, being by the sea. We split into two as some go to a pizza place and others a Mexican where I order an octopus seafood taco. I sit outside on a table with Jesse who is sweet and attentive and Anna, the last of the group I have yet to talk to. She is a petite blonde with a child like cheekiness and smile and speaks with a lilting Scottish accent as a song you don’t ever want to end. She strikes me as being a gentle peacekeeper type, though of course, I could be wrong! As I emerge from ordering I end by chance sitting opposite Elly.

As she emerges from ordering I solve something with a gesture to her ringed fourth finger and ask if she’s married? “Oh, yes”, she says “Many times!”

“No”, she admits “I just like wearing silver rings on my fingers”.

“Just stopping guys from hitting on you”? I ask, inquisitively.

She smiles. I really can’t explain my sudden elation.

Afterwards we find the others and split again to go in search of some frozen yogurt. We call in at some of the eclectic shops along the way selling all sorts of clothes and gifts and start trying on hats with Jesse and recommending which one’s I think would suit her. It has been lovely getting to meet and chat with all of the Haste Company in turn today and I feel like I know each of them a little.

As it approaches half past seven I begin to get slightly concerned about getting back since it was such a marathon by public transport and feel I should start to leave. But Dino says he is driving back to Adams Avenue as he has an Improvisation Show tonight at ‘Finest City Improv’ would I like a lift? That’s fantastic as it means I can relax and enjoy the natural end to one of those days that will possibly stay with me forever; spent in such delightful company by the seaside of a little eccentric Californian beach town as the day slowly makes way for dusk.