I had been in San Francisco for about five months. One weekend afternoon my newly-minted friend Kevin (also new to The City) and I decided to go exploring, so we bought tickets to the ferry and headed out to Alcatraz Island. The weather started out well, but by mid afternoon after we'd finished the tour and were ready to head home, clouds moved in and an epic downpour started. While we sheltered in one of the old guard shacks near the dock waiting for the ferry, one of the park rangers at the visitor center caught my eye. I do so love a man in uniform. But who doesn't? He was blond, bearish, and as I remember, sported an enormous mustache as did most guys in 1987. I guess I was being less than discreet, because I'd apparently caught his eye as well.
When the ferry finally arrived, like two drowned rats Kevin and I made our way to the dock, where said ranger was assisting passengers boarding the ferry. As we walked past, our eyes locked on each other and he said, "Hope you enjoyed your visit. Come back any time!"
I took that as an invitation…or maybe a dare. Kevin and I looked at each other after we'd boarded and Kevin said, "He was so flirting with you." "No way!" I said. "He was just being friendly." (Not believing a word, even as I was speaking it.)
As the week passed, I couldn't get that ranger's face out of my head. I resolved that first thing Saturday, I'd head back out to the island.
He wasn't at the visitor center when I arrived, and I was worried that I happened to return on one of his days off. After wandering the island for a half hour or so I returned to the center and asked if he was working, and they said yes; he was leading a tour in the cellblock—the one place I failed to look.
When I caught up with the tour group and he saw me standing there, he literally lost track of what he was saying and a big smile spread across his face.
After the tour ended, he asked what I was doing there and I said, "Hoping to run into you again."
"I'm just about ready to go on my lunch break. Would you like to join me?"
Duh.
We sat on a bench that afforded an incredible view of the city, and after finishing his sandwich, Jay gave me a private tour, including several "restricted" areas on the northwest side of the island.
No Virginia, we did not fornicate. But we did make out for pretty much the remainder of his break on a grassy area by the prison laundry.
We exchanged numbers and made plans to go out later that week.
It was at that dinner that he dropped the bomb: he would love to see where this would lead, but he was moving to Australia in two weeks and didn't think it would be fair to get involved with anyone only to say goodbye such a short time later.
We got together once more after that, and then as quickly as he'd come into my life, Jay was gone. And we never did get naked. Phone disconnected, a "For Rent" sign outside his flat, and all I had to remember him were my memories and a copy of "Gay Love Signs" he'd given me. I still have that book in a box somewhere.
Welcome to San Francisco, indeed.