COSTA MESA UNPLUGGED:

For a half a dozen years, a CD player parked on a shelf in my dinky Newport Center office sat idle. I never bothered to plug the thing in. There wasn’t a need.

That’s because an amiable chap named Francis Richard Nichol III — the Guitar Man as I was wont to call him, though his stone-washed, everyday name was Nic — occupied a similarly dinky space one door over. And the sound that spilled through our common wall and flowed out of the mail slot in his door was sufficient.

It was more than sufficient. It was heaven.

Tuesday last week, my phone rang. Daniel, my second-oldest and a music-composition and guitar-performance major at Chapman University, was calling. An anchor was chained to the tone of his voice.

“Dad,” he said, “Professor Cogan just told me Nic Nichol died.”

The news punched through my chest like a brick. Nic was only — only — 41. And I was reminded that the whimsy of fate is too often sad and maddeningly inexplicable.

It was seven years ago — a few days after I set up shop in the office space I still occupy — that Nic’s path crossed mine. He stopped by to extend an introductory and welcoming hand. As we chatted, I shared with him that I was in the communications business, pushing words together for a living. He sort of chuckled.

“I play and teach the guitar,” he said. “Let me know if we’re ever playing too loud.” He was like that. Genuine. Refreshingly kind. Thoughtful of others. But I never took him up on the invitation. His music was just too good.

I remember telling him that if he taught as flawlessly as he plays, I might have a student for him.

Nic was a consummate classical guitarist. He didn’t just play the instrument. He made it talk and sing, whisper and cry, laugh and brood. And for the six years that we were neighbors, I had a front-row seat to his brilliant craftsmanship.

Much of what I know about Nic, and what defined our close acquaintance, were merely sounds.

On a given day I’d hear Nic put his key to the deadbolt, flip it over, and push open his misaligned door. Always it would groan against the metal frame. His keys would chatter as he tossed them on a table. And not a half a minute later, he’d be cruising through “El Testamento d’Amelia,” or Francisco Tarrega’s “Recuerdos de la Alhambra,” a piece that would cause a lesser player’s head to explode and his fingers to seize up in knots.

I saw and heard hundreds of adults and youngsters — raw beginners and fair intermediates — train under Nic’s patient and encouraging tutelage. And I learned that Nic’s love of music was vast and eclectic. He’d drive home a Jimmy Page riff, switch to Green Day or Sugar Ray, and then settle into a Segovia or Grenados composition. Always it was the classical pieces that made me pause or miss a deadline by a few minutes.

So when Daniel told his mother and me that he wanted to major in music and study the guitar, I knew precisely where to send him. Nic Nichol.

Nic took Daniel under his wing, introducing him to the classical guitar genre. And when the time was right, he encouraged him to apply to Chapman University. That’s where Nic had trained under another brilliant guitarist, Jeff Cogan. But most important, he taught Daniel how to make a guitar sing.

In March of last year — the same month Nic decided to move out of his dinky little office and teach from his home — I told him Daniel had been accepted to the Chapman University school of music. And he was thrilled.

“He’ll do great,” he said. “He’s got the chops.”

I saw Nic only one other time after he left his office last year. It was on the Chapman campus, and he asked me how Daniel was doing.

“He’s loving it,” I said.

I wish I had told him that I missed him, missed his music. I’ve since plugged that CD player in. But it’s not the same. Not even close.

Rest happy, Guitar Man.