A Saturday Idyll

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea.

--Tennyson

A bright sun. A warm day. A dark blue sky. A peaceful Bay. White sails, rocky cliffs, graceful bridges, playful seals. A happy, laughing crew. And always, in the background, the skyline of San Francisco.

I flew down Friday night, and Chris -- an old hiking buddy and our skipper for the day -- met me at the airport and drove me to his home on Russian Hill. The next morning, three of Chris's friends dropped by and joined us. We drove to the marina in Berkeley, where family members from Sonoma were waiting. The eight of us -- three of us competent sailors, of whom I was not one -- set sail -- well, started the engine, actually -- on an excellent and attractive 36-foot sailboat and successfully navigated out of the marina and into San Francisco Bay for a day of sailing.

Well, for the most part, cruising.

Actually, you see, for much of the day, we were as becalmed at sea as an Ancient Mariner with an Albatross hung round his neck. But, hey, it was all good.

We sailed -- powered -- past Alcatraz with all its dark associations, around to the north side of Angel Island, where we disembarked and tested our land legs. The island -- where Chinese immigrants passed through American immigration back in the 19th century, on their way to backbreaking work on railroad crews -- is now a state park. We stopped for a snack at the small concession stand, and then hiked some distance up the trail, walking past one spectacular view after another, views of the Bay and its environs. Kathy was far in front and seemed bound for the summit, persuaded that it would take no time at all to successfully assault the 488-foot "peak." But cooler heads -- prompted by disgruntled cell phone calls from the more nautical members of our crew, waiting impatiently back at the pier -- prevailed. We skipped our way back down the trail to our awaiting boat.

To the west loomed the Golden Gate. We argonauts sailed -- powered -- our way to the ocean, passing under the ever-graceful bridge itself. We kept a nervous eye skyward, watching nervously for descending suicidal bodies. But the day obviously was too nice -- too nice even for a Californian who had lost his Prozac -- for anyone to feel sufficiently depressed for such an act of finality.

We looked astern (as we say in sailing biz), and enjoyed specacular views of the City, its hills and skyscrapers, framed between the bright orange twin towers of the bridge. The ocean was truly "pacific," its surface as calm as that of the Bay itself. But then, just as nervous images flashed through our minds, images of rogue currents bearing us off Japanwards, we prudently executed a broad U-turn and headed back into the safety of the Bay

We skirted the marina and Fisherman's Wharf areas of the City, watching tourists and dogs at play in city parks, and then cut the power a final time, hoisted the mainsail and unfurled the jib (I show off my nautical jargon before I once more forget it), caught a light north wind in our sails, and skimmed peacefully eastwards, back towards Berkeley.

A get-together for drinks at Chez Chris on Russian Hill, and a seafood (of course!) dinner near Fisherman's Wharf brought us to a tired and happy conclusion of a memorable Saturday in the Bay Area.