When my turn at the tiller came at 10 we calculated ourselves to be 15 miles from the entrance to San Francisco Bay. Susannah came up on deck, Dan struggled out behind her. They both looked worse for wear, though Susannah had endured the night without ralphing. Impressive. Even so, both declined Eric�s offer of breakfast.
I was scanning the horizon, still looking for that first recognizable feature that would herald the long sought Golden Gate. Reading accounts of early sailors navigating the area (Two Years Before the Mast being the best) had informed me that the inlet to the great Bay was named for the yellow rock formation bounding it to either side. That the Bay itself provided such good protection from storm and sea perhaps lent the appellation �Golden� to the passage. (Had it been an only marginally useful bay we might refer to it today as the Bronze Gate.) Already I�d identified the geology: the cliffs along the coast were a ruddy beige. Squinting, focusing, I watched the sunshine part the mist.
And then I saw them. Just two little fingers poking up through the fog below. Two little fingers dwarfing every other visible manmade structure. The twin towers of the Golden Gate Bridge.
�I see it! I see it! Look!! The Bridge!� I was jumping up and down and trying to hold an outstretched arm steady at the same time. Susannah, Dan and Eric�s head�s spun in the direction I was flailing at, ready to behold a magnificent sight. They peered into the distance, peered back at me, then into the distance again.
�I don�t know�.�
�I don�t see anything��
�Are you sure, dude?�
�YES! It�s small but you can see it! Just follow the hills, find where they turn west, look just to the right�.� But try as I might to elicit better eyesight from them, it was just not in their range. Well, fine, I�d keep pointing it out until they could see it. It was frustrating, though. This was probably how prophets feel � No, just look! It�s obvious!
We powered on, the miles ticking down. More and more, the land was occupied by buildings and roads until the sprawl was complete. About the time the last untended grove of trees disappeared the others exclaimed in delight.
�HEY! I do see it! Wow!�
Ha Ha! We were about 7 miles from the Gate as the crow flies, though it was closer to 10 as we flew � including the few miles we�d have to use navigating to the north side of the shipping channel and then down to the Bridge.
The wind was up again but we were still heading into it � and entering a confluence of shipping lanes the like of which we hadn�t seen since the Panama Canal. On the chart the Gate looked like an unfathomably huge bulls-eye. Three major lanes stood out in livid pink, all converging ten miles west of the Bridge. On the water there was at least one freighter barreling along each lane. It seemed a good precaution to remain under power while we negotiated this cataclysm of seagoing traffic. Still�
�Are you going to put the sails up when we go under the bridge?� Susannah asked.
�Ah, well, I think� there�s all this traffic� and the entrance is supposed to be hairy� currents and overflows� I read about some guy who flipped his boat this spring trying to cut a corner��
What was this? I was daunted? After 7,500 miles of weathering every kind of conceivable catastrophe I was going to slink into San Francisco Bay � my new home! � under power with a good wind on the stern???
And yes, the wind came on our stern as I made the turn. We had just passed to the far end of the entrance and were looking under the incredible span of the Bridge at the comparatively smooth waters of the Bay. A mere five miles separated us from destiny.
I looked over my shoulder: Big ships going in. I looked into the Bay: Big ships coming out. We stood now at the west-most point of the voyage, longitude 122 degrees 39 minutes. A decision had to be made.
I cut the engine.
�Eric,� I said, �prepare to raise the main.�
�Aye-aye, Skipper!�