“It was the best of times and the worst of times.” Who wants to hear a New Year’s Eve adventure story?

Gather ’round, my friends, and let me take you back about eight years to an unforgettable night in Goa, India—a night that proved to be not for the faint-hearted! Picture this: a vibrant group of drummers and dancers, all united by an unbreakable bond of rhythm and movement, ready to take on a New Year’s Eve gig that promised excitement and joy.

Arambol, a small fishing village on India’s west coast, is a cultural melting pot that comes alive every winter. Artists, musicians, and weary travelers from all corners of the globe flock to this paradise for its affordability, delicious food, and stunning vistas of the beach and nearby lake. As night falls, you can hear the heartbeats of drum jams echoing across the sands, drawing beautiful souls and seasoned musicians together in a celebration of sound and creativity.

On that fateful night, our crew had scored a gig at a posh bar right by the beach. The atmosphere crackled with energy. A parade of about 20 small motorcycles—each bearing drummers loaded with gear and spirited dancers in eye-catching costumes—set off down the narrow, bumpy, and often hazardous beach roads. The camaraderie we felt while riding as a pack was electrifying; the wind in our hair and the sound of laughter mixed with the roar of our engines made it feel like we were part of something epic.

Upon arrival, we were met with a bustling beachside club alive with partygoers. After what felt like an eternity of waiting backstage, we nestled into position for the midnight countdown. The anticipation was palpable! As the clock ticked down to the New Year, we were ready to unleash our sound, to share our passion, to announce 12:00 with a burst of rhythm and celebration.

But just as the clock struck midnight, chaos erupted! To my astonishment, the beefy bouncers who had been standing guard suddenly dashed away, leaving our stage vulnerable. In an instant, a gang of masked men burst through the entrance wielding long wooden poles meant for violence—not something you typically expect while ringing in the New Year! It felt like a scene from a bizarre movie, but this was all too real! My heart raced as I saw my friend Lukasz bolt for the door, already in flight as panic spread through the crowd.

In that critical moment, it was survival of the fittest. Without a second thought, I yanked my drum off my shoulder and sprinted towards safety. I made my way to the artist area about 200 feet away, where fellow drummers and dancers anxiously regrouped. Amid the frenzy, the manager of the club insisted we should play again! Our leader responded incredulously, firmly stating, “You must be joking!”

Amidst the chaos, we learned that some in our group had been injured; one dear dancer had even been struck by a flying bottle. In my mind, the night had already taken a surreal turn. It then hit me: I had left my beloved drum behind! Fueled by both worry and determination, I cautiously made my way back up the grassy knoll toward the stage. The scene was harrowing—injured partygoers were being tended to, and the DJ’s area looked like a disaster zone, his once-proud Apple laptop now crumpled and battered.

Gathering my drum in a hurry, I realized that I had narrowly escaped the worst of the chaos, but all those brave souls in front of me bore witness to a night gone awry. Just as I prepared to leave the madness behind, a chilling realization struck: my one-of-a-kind chrome cassankasanks were missing! Love and fear waged a battle in my heart as I braved the scene one last time.

As I scoured the area, I finally caught a glimpse of my precious instruments! But then it happened—a second wave of shouts pierced the air, signaling that the gang had returned for round two! My adrenaline kicked in, and with my drum nestled tightly in my grasp, I leaped onto my bike and sped off as if fueled by the very spirit of New Year’s revelry.

The sight before me felt surreal. All around, people limped down the road, bloodied and bandaged, like the aftermath of a Halloween horror show. But this was not a costume party—it was all too real, and my heart raced with disbelief.

Upon returning to my room in Arambol, I pulled my drum from its case to inspect its condition and my heart sank as I noticed three splintered cracks in the stem. I learned later that one of the masked men had stood on my drum to unleash his rage on the DJ. Luckily, I managed to repair it afterward, and for nearly eight years since, those repairs have held strong.

Rumors eventually spread that it had been the work of a rival club owner, using off-duty police to orchestrate the chaos. While this remained unconfirmed, it added a twist of intrigue to an already wild experience.

I didn’t set foot back in India for six long years after that night. Yet, when I finally returned, the magic of Goa awaited me anew. I embraced the vibrant atmosphere, focused on performing and teaching, finding healing in the rhythm that first captivated me even through chaos.

Sometimes life takes us on unexpected journeys, revealing the beauty and power of connection through music. Even in the face of adversity, our passion binds us, and our hearts beat to the sound of possibility. So, here’s to adventures—both the exhilarating and the harrowing!