The weather is perfect here in San Diego—what my wife and I call a Maine Day: 22 degrees Celsius and breezy. We hauled off to Ocean Beach, where navigating people busking or begging for money takes almost as much talent as negotiating a kayak through rocky rapids. Sure enough, I looked left and missed the approaching, friendly fundraiser from the right. Smack!
The singing circle of happy people distracted me. Oh no! Greenpeace? Again? Just cut an artery why don’t they and bleed me? But this dude—the one holding the yellow sign—had a different pitch. Greenpeace hires for two-week jaunts, he claimed, and those who don’t meet their quotas are dismissed from service. There be women with kids about to lose their livelihood. Yikes! The small cadre raised money against Greenpeace.
How often do you get to support something like that? I never carry cash, but my wife had two bucks, which we donated to this extremely worthy planet-saving cause. Think of the children who might have to eat McDonald’s because their parent no longer could chase down San Diego shoppers or beach goers.
I complimented the dude for his hat, which he removed and offered me for a $20 donation. Now that’s fundraising. How could you not meet your quota with gumption like that? But I declined, not having a Twenty and sure Anne would divorce me for wearing the floppy.
He asked my name, so the group could thank me for the $2. Then I remembered the Fuji X-T1, hanging over my shoulder. I asked to take their photo (so I would have something to illustrate this post). But I missed an opportunity nevertheless. I should have suggested another song: Adapt the John Lennon classic. “All we are saying, is give Greenpeace a chance”.