What was lost in the fires

I've got a story for you today. A true story. A personal story.

It happened all the way back in 1992. I was working as an engineer at a semiconductor company in Tempe. I was going to present a technical paper at an engineering conference in Los Angeles, and as a kind of impromptu mini-vacation, I decided to bring my wife Tammy and our daughter Ashley with me.

Ashley was only three months old at the time, and as cute as a button. Tammy's parents, having lived their whole lives in small town Wisconsin, were mortified that we would take such a tiny baby to the big bad city, but we didn't have any qualms about it, and she turned out to be an excellent traveler.

I gave my presentation on Friday, and on Saturday we decided to take a drive up the Pacific Coast Highway to Malibu, a town I'd visited before and loved but Tammy had not (obviously that goes double for Ashley).

The first place we stopped was Zuma Beach. Since it was October, we had the place almost entirely to ourselves. We didn't put Ashley in the water--it was a little too cold for that--but she loved digging her chubby little hands in the sand and she was mesmerized by the waves pounding again and again against the shore.

It came time for dinner, and we decided to stop at a funky little Thai place just north of the beach and on the other side of the highway. It was quiet inside, and dark. A perfect place for a relaxing dinner (Ashley was as well-behaved a diner as she was an airline passenger).

We were promptly seated at a table next to another couple, which I thought was weird as we were just about the only parties in the entire restaurant. Tammy and Ashley sat with their backs to a young woman. I sat across from Tammy, facing the man across from the woman.

Before we'd even ordered, the young woman turned to Tammy and lavished praise on how beautiful Ashley was. We thanked her. She mentioned that she was expecting, and we congratulated her. And then she introduced the two of them--being sure to their first names only. Her name was Linda and the man's name was James.

I thought they might be celebrities so I took little peeks of them during our dinner. The woman seemed vaguely familiar, but she was wearing sunglasses, even in the darkness of the restaurant, and I couldn't quite tell who she was.

I looked across at the man and when he looked back at me, he had the look of someone who desperately wanted to be recognized. But no. I didn't recognize him at all.

After dinner, we quickly paid our bill and said a quick but warm goodbye to the couple. As we headed toward the exit, we noticed that three of the servers were huddled around the stand, pointing at the couple and giggling.

That's when Tammy turned to look back at the couple. "I think I know who that is," she said. "That's Linda Hamilton." Of course, sci fans will remember her from The Terminator and Terminator 2, the latter of which she'd starred in just the year before. 

It would be another six years before I figured out who the man was. Tammy and I were watching the 1998 Oscars at a friend's house when they announced who'd won Best Director. A tall, thin, blond man took the stage, and as he hoisted his statuette in the air shouting "I'm king of the world!", I immediately recognized him as the guy from the restaurant.

It was, of course, James Cameron. The film, Titanic.

I'd met other celebrities before. I had a nice talk with Oscar-winning screenwriter Peter Shaffer at a theater seminar in Colorado Springs. I had an equally nice talk with America Ferrara at the premiere of a small indie film, also in Colorado Springs. And when I was about ten years old, I met Buddy Ebsen on location in Monument Valley, where the old hoofer entertained my family with a quick little jig. 

But meeting Linda Hamilton and James Cameron was the best of them all, because it wasn't a celebrity meet. It was just two couples have a quick chat over dinner. 

That restaurant burned to the ground this week in the Palisades fire.

Thousands of people have suffered unfathomable loss from the fires currently burning in southern California. Some have lost homes. Some have lost family members. Some have lost everything. 

It been heartbreaking reading all the stories, and I wonder how long it'll take for those affected to return to a semblance of normal life. Maybe never.

So my heart goes out to them today. And my prayers. And my deepest, dearest hopes for some sort of recovery.

In the midst of so much devastation and loss, one cozy little beachside restaurant may not count for much. But I know I'll never forget it.