Ian Dryden

Gay Harper: People tend to form cliques. One of the strongest is called the Front Row because they always take over the first three rows nearest the pool.

When I first arrived in San Diego, I loved its beauty even though it might be artificial — everything looked so perfect. I was a recent widow of a career army man and was looking for a completely different lifestyle. And this could be it.

My criteria in apartment searching were pleasant surroundings and a place to meet people. I visited every adult community in the area; Driftwood had the most opulent surroundings and best facilities. Nothing understated here — brash signs declaring immediate occupancy, country club living, adults only please no pets.

I reveled in its uniqueness and Driftwood exemplified Southern California's live-for-the-moment feeling. Even the sense of unreality appealed to me as I was still somewhat in a state of shock after my husband's death.

There is also something deeper about Driftwood for me. It is a womb I can hide in or come out of as I please. Somehow, I feel protected here and I sometimes stay for days in its confines.

Perhaps this is because it really reminds me of an army post which is so familiar from my past life. My apartment is my quarters, the main center is the officer’s club; even the transient population is that of the ever-changing personnel on post. The regulations we live by, the bulletins of schedules are as comfortable as old shoes. There is a regimentation here but one I find easy to live with. Sometimes I think of moving away, but I inwardly panic at the thought of trying to burrow into a new nest — and besides I can think of nowhere I would like better.

For now, for me, it is ideal. John comes on weekends from Newport Beach. From Friday evening till Monday noon I am half of a couple. We do the couple things: sleep together, play bridge, watch TV, tell each other the little husband/wife things. I put hot compresses on his back when it aches and he checks under the hood when something goes wrong with my car.

From Monday noon till Friday evening I have my “free” time. I drink coffee in bed while I read the morning newspaper (something I can’t do on weekends), turn on the light at 3 AM if I wish and read or write, go where I please when I please with whom I please. I usually have a highball while I watch the 5 o’clock news — and though this husband-coming-home time used to be the loneliest time for me, now I have discovered I like being alone at this hour.

The hub of the social activity is the pool area. Driftwoodites sit poolside and murmur where else could we find all this without paying an arm and a leg? The hot sun, the manicured grounds, the glistening pool, the steaming jacuzzi, the beautiful people — some in bikinis, some in tennis shorts on the way to the courts — people vacation here all year round, just what Driftwood advertises: Country Club Living.

We old-timers, those who have been here over a year, view each other with a special kinship. We call back and forth, “Hey, Bill, that job come through yet?" “Tom, how about a book exchange?’ Newcomers watch the interchange enviously — many come here alone and lonely; Driftwood looks like the perfect easy place to make friends. Some get into the sand volley ball game or meet at the jacuzzi, some edge up to an on-going bridge game hoping someone will drop out and a fourth will be needed. Too often, I’ll watch an anxious newcomer smiling desperately around and I know he’ll disappear in a month or so — no little niche for him.

People tend to form cliques. One of the strongest is called the Front Row because they always take over the first three rows nearest the pool. They come out early every morning, put a towel on the chair of their choice to reserve when they return about noon for their daily gathering.

All of them are well-to-do middle-aged Jews from the Eastern seaboard. Their chatter monopolizes the air, from the men come comments on the stock market or real estate or the restaurant they sold. Their voices are loud and authoritative and there is a good deal of argument. The women talk ceaselessly among themselves, now and then holding up a piece of colorful hand work to be exclaimed over. Their conversation seems mostly to consist of family, food, and remembrances and the men look condescendingly though fondly down on them.

Sol is one of Driftwood’s Old Guard. Unless it is actually raining, Sol spends most of his day by the pool. First he reads the Wall Street Journal; this is his “unfriendly" time, don’t start a conversation with him then. When he is ready, he gets off his lounge chair, walks over to a group of kids and crouches down on his haunches to talk.

He is sixtyish, with a pleasant lined face and in fine athletic trim. Bats around tennis balls about every day and is careful of his diet — with great stress on vitamins. He drinks very little but loves cocktail parties, can stand around for hours talking with just a glass of soda in his hand.

One can almost set a watch by Sol; 9:45 out to select a chair and read his Journal, 11:00 social time, 12:30 back to his apartment for a “little bite" which will be well-planned and well-cooked. He can be expected back in just an hour.

He is Jewish but disdains the Front Row. His chair is always among the kids who like and respect him, and ask his advice. And they always ask him to their parties, one of the few middle-aged to be included. One of his best friends is Big Ned, a young black dude — they sit for hours in Ned’s apartment smoking pot and talking.

Mick and Barbara are one of our few married couples. A beautiful pair in their mid-forties, he, tall, tanned, slim and blond — she, earthy brown, warm and loving. Four children grown and gone, and the couple took an early retirement. Had a brush with death a few years ago and they decided to live and play while they could.

So they came to Driftwood. They play tennis, sit in the sun, go to every party (drink, perhaps, a bit too much). They follow the horses, go to Tijuana every Saturday to the foreign book — sometimes they’re lucky and sometimes they’re not. They move often — to Palm Springs, Las Vegas, Del Mar, and then return to Driftwood for a few months.

Mick is always surrounded by the 21-year-olds; the girls think him glamorous and the young men call him buddy. He hates growing old, loves the kids. He plays water volley ball with the guys and talks softly to the sleek tender girls.

Barbara frets over her grandchild’s croup and talks of life in New York as they knew it ten years ago with a growing family. She does not know how to change for Mick, tries to hold him with her mother fingers. She gazes at him wistfully and reminds him of the old days; he nods absently as his eyes follow a pert young fanny swinging by.

Dwight is one of our typical “hustlers,” 29, good looking, and divorced — as friendly with his elders as he is with his peers.

The chicks surrounded him when he arrived at Driftwood. First, two sisters, Patty and Anna, moved into his two bedroom apartment, kept house, cooked his meals and took turns sharing his bed.

Then along came Sheila. Dwight wooed her with such fervor that she fell in love and moved in. The sisters were relegated to the second bedroom but they accepted this and became good friends. Sheila believed all of Dwight’s words of love and settled herself deeply in domesticity. “Dwight, please be home by 6:00 tonight,” and out by the pool she clung to his arm a little too tightly.

He told me one day with dismay in his nice brown eyes that he couldn’t stand being so tied down — and a couple of nights later he brought a new girl home from a party.

Diane was different from the others, a foxy blonde with indifference in her eyes. Still, for a short time it seemed to work. The men gave Dwight admiring looks and we all asked “how does he do it?” The roommates congregated around the pool and not one of them ever said a word against Dwight.

After a couple of weeks, Diane moved on, but by that time things were too uncomfortable for Dwight. He, too, moved. The three girls stayed on and remain the closest of friends.

If coexistence is workable. I’d say it works at Driftwood. Live and let live is the motto of most of us. The young (they must be 21), the middle-aged and the old live harmoniously for the most part. In some respects we are like a small town — gossip runs high — but without the censure. We get a kick out of hearing about Mary leaving Tony and moving in with Jim, but we don’t care.

Like time. Driftwood marches on, and like time, somewhat relentlessly. The rents inch up and many are felled by the wayside (Driftwood seems to call for cliches). I can always tell when someone is ready to move — all of a sudden there is nothing good about the place; the management is terrible, the tennis courts are breaking down, the Front Row is too pushy, there isn’t a decent man here, the girls are all tramps, and, crowning blow, the rent has gone up. The turnover is high. I feel a momentary pang at losing a friend; even if they move just across the street, somehow they are never a part of Driftwood any more, they don’t belong — and there is always someone to take their place.

Sometimes I am restless and need to get away from Driftwood and Southern California. I need to satisfy my Midwestern longing for country that doesn't seem to be so blatantly manmade, real trees, cows grazing, snow on the ground. I long for — I don’t know what I long for — but a couple of days away and I am ready to come back.

Temporary, I keep telling myself, this life has got to be temporary. I realize at my age I don’t have all that much time to fool around, but for now the life satisfies me and I will stay.