I could hear the music as I approached Pacific Java Café in Rockaway Beach. Rick was at his spot playing piano. It might be a Beatles tune, Elton John, a Neil Diamond song, or a show tune from a Broadway musical. My husband and I came almost every Sunday, sometimes on a Saturday afternoon, to hear Rick play, and to order coffee and a marble cake, talk about sports or politics, or just about how we felt that week. It was a weekly ritual that took on significance in our lives. The Pacific Java Café, with its special Pacifica light that streamed in, and the place's intimacy, became our sanctuary. It was an oasis. We bonded with Rick, who played every day at the café, no matter how many people were there.

 

Some of the customers were regulars who knew Rick; most were Pacifica residents who got to know him over the years. They chatted about people they knew, or about life. We philosophized, poeticized, sang, and made sure to put money in the tip jar. Rick sometimes whispered details to me about someone’s life that he knew, like a once-upon-a-time amazing career, or a marriage gone wrong, or a tragedy that left its impact on them.  

​

Rick was a lifelong Pacifica resident. He graduated from Terra Nova High in 1975. He was fiercely attached to Pacifica and lived just across the way from the Café. His connection to the Pacific Java Café began as a long-time customer, and later, as a musician drawn to the piano. He asked the owners, James and Charles Aguilar, for permission to play, and from that day on, he played almost every day for four years.

​

Pacific Java Café was our Symphony Hall, and Rick was our star performer. When he sang and played, life got a little bit better, a little bit easier, a little bit friendlier. It was also our chapel, and Rick was the pastor. In between songs, we learned more about him and more about ourselves. Each song became a prayer or a hymn.  The raw quality of his voice, as his fingers flew over the keys, was our liturgy. Instead of the Bible, it was John Lennon in “Imagine” that became our words of comfort and wisdom, or Billy Joel in “The Piano Man,” James Taylor, Bob Dylan, and too many other songs and musicians and songbooks to remember. If we requested a song he didn’t have, he raced to his car, opened his trunk full of songbooks, got the right one, came back, and played it. Most of the time, he had the songbook somewhere, and if not, he would apologize and promise to get it the following week.

 

“You have made my day, my friends,” he would tell us when we walked in. “You are here, and now my day is made.” We felt the same. Sometimes I sat next to him, turned pages, and sang along. At other times, I sat at the corner table, just listening and reflecting on my week, looking out the window at the light. This part of Pacifica and the street was a hub: Pacific Java Café, Successories in The Button Box Shop next door, a hotel on the corner, a cannabis shop, and an old-fashioned 50s-style diner that served burgers and shakes. The ocean was close, but there were no views of the waves or the surfers. We were nestled on the street, in the café, with Rick and the regulars. Customers who were new to the place applauded after every song. They were not used to live music with their lattes or mochas.

​

In a way, Rick was like a modern-day prophet. He had re-found religion and a belief in God and attributed a lot to that. With his long hair, piercing blue eyes, philosophy of love and respect, and faith in God, he made us think about life differently. It was less complex and more about loving your neighbor, and he was flabbergasted and upset about what was happening in our country. Rick reminded us that true faith is found in simple acts of kindness. Rick was a loyal SF sports fan and was steadfastly dedicated to all his beloved local teams: The Golden State Warriors, The SF Giants, and The SF 49ers. He texted me often while watching Warriors games, either frustrated or ecstatic by the game. And of course, he adored Stephen Curry.

​

Part of the attraction of these afternoons was that they were a uniquely Pacifica experience. Pacific Java Café felt like a home. It was that quality that attracted one of the owners, James Aguilar, to purchase it in 2021. “The cozy, home-like charm of the café was one of the biggest reasons I felt drawn to buy the business back in 2021. As I looked around the café, I envisioned where I would put a piano.” That piano became the centerpiece of the Café. In fact, the piano belonged to James’s father-in-law, who had passed away, and his wife volunteered to move it to the Café in 2022. When it moved and found its home in the Café, Rick was thrilled. James remembers how Rick’s eyes lit up. He asked for permission to play, and James said, “Of course.” That musical legacy was passed on to Rick, who inherited the pleasure of playing every day.

​

Rick did not tell anyone he was gravely ill. We had stopped frequenting the Café regularly for a few months. A few weeks ago, noticing that Rick was not there, and the piano strangely silent, we discovered that Rick had passed away at his home with his sister. I could not imagine this place without him. He was part of our life, Pacifica, the Café, and life would not be as friendly or as rich without him. His music and his presence had brought us his gentle camaraderie, and those shared moments of sipping coffee and listening to Rick play gave us the strength to face the week ahead. We need those connections to each other and a routine of reflecting, listening, and sharing. Rick’s last words to the owners of the Café were “God Bless.” They parted not only as customers but as friends. I want to thank the owners of Pacific Java Café for the opportunity they gave Rick to share his talent and his spirit with all who entered the Café for the last few years.

​

I dedicate this piece to Rick Nichols and to the piano that he played with love and his gift. We mourn him, but do not forget him.  The piano took on a new life on Jan. 17th at Pacific Java Café, when his friends honored him and played for him and to him. We hope music will continue to resound at the Café, as we remember Rick as the one and only “Piano Man of Pacifica.”