Foreword

Foreword: Echoes of a Beep

October 4, 1957. I was just a few months old, swaddled in the arms of a world on the cusp of upheaval. The day's headlines weren't about me, or any baby for that matter. They were about Sputnik—a gleaming 23-inch Soviet sphere, polished to a mirror finish, hurtled into orbit equipped with two spindly wire antennas trailing behind. As it circled the Earth, it broadcast an eerie, electronic beep, a simple radio pulse that ham operators around the globe tuned in to catch, like eavesdropping on the future.

Little did I know, that tinny signal marked the ignition of a technology race that would redefine society, propelling us from the analog shadows into the digital blaze. It was the spark that lit the fuse for everything from moon landings to microchips—and, in ways I couldn't have imagined, for the quiet revolution I'd help unleash decades later.

Looking back, it's almost comical how modest "advancement" felt in those early days. There I was, wrapped in a low-tech cloth diaper secured by high-tech plastic pants—yes, plastic was the cutting edge, a miracle material that kept everything (mostly) contained. Mothers everywhere nodded in solemn agreement: without those plastic pants, the utility of the diaper dissolved into chaos. The era's other marvels included the birth control pill (one innovation my own mother, thankfully, sidestepped), Teflon pans that promised frictionless mornings, the Xerox machine's promise of instant duplication, and color televisions flickering into middle-class living rooms like forbidden rainbows.

Yet amid this parade of progress, communication—our most human thread—languished in the past, letters on paper, voices over copper wires, faces across kitchen tables. But for the youngest of engineers, me and my brother Larry, a piece of string and two empty soup cans was enough to spur the imagination. But this early tech had resisted reinvention for generations and would cling stubbornly for decades more. That stasis wouldn't hold. In my lifetime, it shattered, and I would stand at the epicenter of the quake: the seismic shift from analog whispers to digital roars.

To claim SF Net as the first social network might sound audacious, a founder's hubris. But the evidence humbles the boast. In the years before the internet seeped into every home—before AOL dial-up became a household drone—SF Net drew waves of press, from the San Francisco  Chronicle to tech zines coast to coast and far beyond. They hailed it not as a novelty, but as a breakthrough: public terminals tucked into the city's cafés, offering email, forums, and real-time chatter to anyone with a quarter and a curiosity. It wasn't about consuming information; it was about creating connection. A dispersed community of strangers, bound not by geography but by shared screens, swapping stories, sparking debates, forging friendships that spilled from pixels into the physical world.

What made it profitable? People talking. That's it. No ads, no algorithms—just the raw electricity of human exchange. NetGets, our offline gatherings at those same cafés, turned virtual bonds into handshakes and laughter, proving the network's soul was as organic as it was innovative. In an era predating Friendster, MySpace, or Facebook, SF Net wasn't just ahead of the curve; it drew the curve.

But origins aren't forged in headlines alone. They root deeper, in the soil of upbringing and the rhythms of belonging. The early chapters of this book will unpack the worlds that shaped me: the sprawling, argument-filled warmth of my Italian-Portuguese family, where Sunday dinners doubled as diplomacy summits; the gritty camaraderie of my dad's and grandfather's restaurant/bar (Merchant’s Grill) in Oakland's Commission Produce Market, a hub for truckers, farmers, and fixers trading tales over early morning coffee and on very cold mornings, coffee and brandy; the neighborhood streets where kids roamed free, turning cul-de-sacs into constitutions. Community wasn't a buzzword for me—it was oxygen. The center, not the periphery, of every story worth telling.

On this journey you’ll come to know me, the unlikely architect of it all: a one-man operation who'd taken exactly one computer class in college. How does someone like that summon the audacity—and the chops—to birth a system that spanned cities? The answer lies in a mosaic of grit, serendipity, and a secret weapon: my collaborator, David Lahti, the wizard coded the terminals' brains TableTalk, coaxing quarter-operated magic from clunky hardware.

Building SF Net demanded a polymath's frenzy. I designed five distinct terminal models—sleek from a small cafe table to pedestals that blended into café aesthetics like furniture, not fixtures. I crafted a user interface so intuitive it felt like conversation, not computation. With David, we engineered the Table-Talk software: coinbox-savvy code that authenticated users, routed messages, and kept the digital hearth burning. On the server side, I programmed the backbone—modems humming, data flowing. To animate the community, I seeded services: forums for lost pets and local gigs, email relays that bridged the Bay Area's divides. And the business alchemy? Persuading skeptical café owners that a glowing table in the corner wouldn't scare off their bohemian regulars. Hacking the phone lines to beam signals to cities outside the local call radius, San Rafael, Berkeley, San Mateo and Oakland. Each task, in today's terms, would swallow a startup team. In the early '90s, I did it solo, fueled by conviction and caffeine.

This book isn't a tech manual or a victory lap. It's a dispatch from the front lines of connection—how a beep in the sky echoed into a flashing cursor on a screen, and how those screens rewove the fabric of how we find each other. From Sputnik's lonely orbit to the cafés of San Francisco, where strangers became something more, this is the story of the first social network. Not because it was flawless, but because it was inevitable. And because, in the end, it was ours.

• Wayne Gregori

El Salvador, November 2025