The sun had disappeared into the Pacific Ocean hours earlier and that chilly breeze that hits the southern California coastline after dark was sweeping in, taking the sting out of what had been an unseasonably hot spring day.

In the distance, the majestic Queen Mary stood guard in the bay.

There were barriers up all through downtown, marking off a twisting, challenging course set up for the Long Beach Grand Prix Formula One race. It had been a long day of practice laps and interviews. James Hunt was the defending F1 champ. Grand Prix motorcycle racers were buzzing about how demanding the track was. The air was filled with elegance and petrol.

A noon luncheon featured a classically European buffet, complete with a sabrage ceremony -- a grand production of a sommelier opening a bottle of champagne with a sabre.

All elegance and hipness aside, it had been a long day and, as a young sportswriter for the L.A. Herald-Examiner, I was ready to go home.

The damp, dull Long Beach Arena served as the garage area and press headquarters and I had been in and out of it all day long, chasing interviews, gathering information, and hanging out with an international press corps, the likes of which I had never seen.

I was walking around a corner of the old, dank building, lugging my portable typewriter in one hand, a sheaf of press notes in the other and a Reporter's Notebook stuffed into my back right pocket when I literally stumbled into a couple in the darkness. We backed away from each other and I offered a quick apology.

"That's alright...it is rather dark," the man said.

It took a moment to focus my eyes, but the voice was immediately recognizable.

"George?" I asked.

"Yes?" he said.

"I heard you were here for the race. Got time to do a quick interview? I'm a sportswriter for the Herald-Examiner," I said, reporter instincts taking over.

His then-girlfriend, future wife, Olivia Arias, interrupted.

"He works for the Herald, not the Times. He's a dark horse, just like you," she said, well aware of my newspaper's status when compared with The Whale, as we called the L.A. Times back then, a behemoth of a metropolitan paper that boasted a daily circulation of more than a million. We were second, with about 350,000 daily subscribers, the result of a nasty labor dispute that held over from the late '60s.

"Well, I would, but I've got another commitment right now and we're late," he said. "But, I'll be here tomorrow. Is that OK?"

"Sure," I said. "When should we meet?"

"I'll be around. We'll talk," he replied.

Now, ever since their first appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show, I had been a huge fan of The Beatles. They came around at a time when the United States was in a dull funk, a cloud hanging over it as a result of the turmoil of the civil rights movement, early intervention in the Vietnam War, and the assassination of John Kennedy.

But, four young men from Liverpool arrived on U.S. shores and, quickly, the mood went from gloom to gladness. We were drawn in by their music, but won over by their charm and intelligence. They were witty and wise. They had these funny haircuts and this sound that was unlike anything we had ever heard before.

Rock 'n' roll had long-since lost its innocence. Chuck Berry was blacklisted from most radio stations because of his run-ins with the law. Jerry Lee Lewis was also forbidden because he played "the devil's music," and, besides, had married his underage cousin. We had given up on Elvis because his post-Army career, at that point, had become a huge disappointment after his manager decided he could make more money by doing silly films with cheesy soundtracks.

So, when The Beatles knocked on our door, we eagerly let them in.

They represented a new freedom in the sense that they realized a put-on when they heard one and did not partake in the nonsensical babble typified by the teen idols of the day. They had real opinions, even in the early days, and were not afraid to share them.

They were the architects of the '60s.

Harrison, over the course of the band's career, became the most interesting to me. As I started playing in bands -- originally a drummer, by the way -- I started listening to music differently, dissecting the various parts, how songs were written and put together, listening to who was playing what and trying to figure out how and why.

His melodic guitar style was intriguing. He had taken elements from rockabilly, R&B, and straight-ahead Chuck Berry rock 'n' roll and come up with a hybrid.

Later, his songwriting started to compete well with the Lennon-McCartney juggernaut and, at the end of the line, songs like "Here Comes the Sun" and "Something" were better than most written by his bandmates. An arguable point? Maybe.

It was all too much to ponder that night as I drove home, tired, excited, and looking forward to the next day -- race day, and a promised interview.

Now, I was pretty sure that the next day, all would be forgotten, he'd go his way and I'd go mine. More than 100,000 people were expected at the race and, like me, he had an unrestricted pass, which meant he could go anywhere at any time. Considering this gave us access to not only the pits and garage, but to some of the rooftop viewing areas, I figured the odds were against me.

It was a dreadful experience getting back to the race site the next morning, even with press credentials -- worse than getting to the Rose Bowl on New Year's Day for the big game -- but I made it in, claimed a spot at one of the press tables in the arena, when my friend Hank Ives, who was doing publicity for the event, walked up.

"C'mon, we're going to watch the start from a rooftop down the street," he said.

"OK," I answered. "By the way, I ran into George Harrison last night. If you see him, remind him I'm looking for him, OK?"

"He's been here all through qualifying," Hank said. "Nice guy. Sure."

Hank ushered about a handful of reporters to the rooftop, which had taken on a rather un-Long Beach-like air of sophistication. The champagne was flowing, and there were trays of pate de faux grois and Beluga caviar being toted by butlers in crisp white shirts and bow ties. Pretty stuffy.

Race day was incredible as Mario Andretti and Niki Lauda chased each other around the course all day in one of the most thrilling races I have ever seen, with Andretti taking the checkered flag.

About midway through the race, I took to the arena for a rest. The sun was hot, the crowd surging and a little shade sounded like a good idea.

As I walked in through the loading dock and headed to my spot on press row, I saw George and Olivia walking my way.

"Good to see you again," he said, offering a handshake," he said. "Sorry 'bout last night, but I promised somebody I'd do something for them and was running late."

Turns out he had promised to judge a wet T-shirt contest at a local bar where the race teams were partying, but it didn't matter because, well, he was there, looking for me and ready to talk.

I had decided that I wouldn't get into any of the stuff about The Beatles. That had been done to death and, seriously, what would he offer a reporter he had barely met? So, I kept the conversation focused on racing. Turns out he was a real fan with some pretty good knowledge about the sport.

Then it all went weird.

When we started our chat, we were the only three people in that little section of the arena. Suddenly, however, it seemed like a hundred or so other reporters just dropped out of the sky, encircling us.

They shouted questions at George, who looked me in the eye and ignored them. It was clearly my interview, we had hit it off, and he wasn't about to turn it into a press conference. My interview, my story, my questions. It took the growing press corps a few minutes to realize this, but when they did, it all got cartoon-like as the microphones would get stuck in my face as I asked a question, then into his as he answered. Then it started to get uncomfortable. The pack of reporters started closing in tighter and tighter. When we started our chat, we stood with a comfortable space between us. As it progressed, we were pushed closer and closer together until we were practically nose-to-nose.

I was pretty much done with my questions when I decided it was time to turn the tables a bit.

Instead of questions about racing, cars and motorcycles, I started asking some of the questions that a teenybopper magazine would ask.

"Your favorite color?" I asked.

He shot me a puzzled look, looked at Olivia, then turned back, a very slight smile on his face.

"Blue," he said, again looking me in the eyes with a silent, "I get it" shining through.

"Still like those little candies they used to throw at you back in Liverpool?" I asked.

"Nah...they hurt my teeth," he responded, stone serious.

This went on for about five minutes until I finally said, "Really good to see you again, George. See you later."

"'kay, mate," he said as we both turned and worked our way through the puzzled crowd that probably didn't realize they were being put on.

Later, I saw him hiding out in a dark corner of the arena. We nodded and I walked up to him and Olivia.

"I used to think being a Beatle would be the coolest thing in the world," I told him. "This is f***ed up, man."

"Tell me about it," he said. "It's like this every time I go anywhere."

"Sorry, man, but thanks for the interview," I said.

I wrote the piece and about a week letter, my boss called me into his office.

"Here...fan mail," he said.

It was a letter praising the column I had written about George, suggesting that it was so good I should have a daily column and, well, should probably do music instead of sports. The letterhead had "Time and Space Enterprises" stamped on it and it was signed by Carl Roles.

"And, no...you don't get a daily column," my boss laughed.

I called the number at the bottom of the letter to thank the guy for the note. What I got was an answering machine. It was obviously a homemade tape of Eric Idle, doing his Monty Python best, to hysterically inform me that, well, I had dialed properly but, unfortunately, there was nobody home and, well, he was very sorry, but assured me I would get a return call...maybe...someday...if I was lucky...or something.

So, I left my name and number.

Not long after, I got a call from Carl. It was one of those interesting calls where you know somebody on the other end has something to say, but doesn't quite know how to say it.

After a couple of clumsy moments, he finally said that he was George's brother-in-law, that George loved the column and wanted to pass along his thoughts, and that it was all very cool and that I should "stay in touch," that the number rang into George's house, Carl would almost always be the one to answer and that I really shouldn't share it with anybody.

Not long after that, I did make the switch from sports to becoming the paper's rock critic.

One of my first columns was about how I would always be fair and honest, but that one thing had to be clear: I was a huge fan of Harrison and Eric Clapton, and as such, my critique of their work would probably come with some personal bias.

Meanwhile, I had visited George's home on Selkirk Ave. in Laurel Canyon. I knew that despite all the public comments, he still had a warm spot in his heart from his days with The Beatles because the only wall decorations were old, original press photos from the very early days -- the time all four of them agreed was the best of their career. There were photos from Hamburg, Liverpool, The Cavern, and the earliest press kits. There were performance photos of very young Beatles, individual headshots, all in black and white.

That's why it wasn't a surprise when I received an invitation one day to a press conference announcing a huge benefit concert at the L.A. Coliseum to help an environmental group save the whales.

The invitation was signed by Rod Stewart and Mick Fleetwood, but promised that George would be there.

It didn't take me long to get hold of the list of performers who had agreed to do the two-day show. Stewart, Fleetwood Mac, Clapton, Harrison were all on there, heading a list of performers that would have put Woodstock to shame.

Then, three other names popped out: John Lennon, Paul McCartney, Ringo Starr.

According to the source that gave me the list, Paul and Ringo would close the first day with separate sets and John and George the second day, with separate sets.

I quickly called the house because something like this was impossible to believe.

"Can I get a quote?" I asked.

"No...the stars aren't right," I was told. I could feel the