San Francisco Bay has an endless number of fascinating attractions. This week we are exploring the west side. Our travels started with a sprint over to Angel Island through a fleet of a couple of dozen racing Folkboats. As we later discovered, their regatta was sponsored by the Corinthian YC in Tiburon. We were amazed to see such a gathering on a weekday, but have since been assured repeatedly that this is the very best season in the Bay. The fog is minimal, the sun shines early every day, and water temps have warmed to a max.
Angel Island has several coves recommended for anchoring, but we had decided to go to Ayala Cove where the old quarantine hospital was located as well as barracks from the WWII days. Nowadays it's a state park served by ferries from all over the Bay and offers docks for day use and buoys for overnighting. We tied up briefly to unload and lock the bikes ashore, paid for moorage, and went off to set up between a pair of color coded buoys as directed. This maneuver involved tying to a ring on the first buoy and then backing down to the second. Being too lazy to launch the dinghy, the crew du jour decided to swim to the buoy tether in teeth. Actually it was a very short swim (no teeth were involved) and relatively painless. The buoys are kept pretty clean of scratchy sea life by western gulls constantly pulling mussels off. This seems to be their favorite food around here.
Having taken the plunge quite literally, I found the water a surprisingly delightful temperature and swam around for quite a while with a scrub brush working on the waterline. Charlie followed. As we watched boats out for an evening sail in Raccoon Strait, we both felt quite refreshed and comfortable after the hot afternoon.
Wednesday, September 21
In the morning the water seemed colder during my brief plunge in honor of Uncle George Clowes, the first cruising relative I really knew. As the first ferry arrived, almost empty, from Berkeley we cast off and returned to the dock in order to start the day exploring the island. After a quick stop at the Cones cafe for an oatmeal raisin cookie right off the baking sheet, we found the route to the Immigration Station and Mt Livermore. It quickly mutated from trail to staircase, thus burning the plaque from our arteries as we ascended several flights carrying the bikes! But it was a shortcut, in traditional SJS biking style.
We locked the bikes to a eucalyptus tree and proceeded up the North Ridge trail in lovely shade. Forests are returning to the island, thanks to the park's benign neglect and what looks like a bit of planting of pines. It was very dry and hot though a sea breeze kicked up whitecaps in the Slot below. By the time we reached the summit, the fog over the city had burned off but we could see it sweeping in under the GGB, still capping Alcatraz Island, then lifting and turning to puffy clouds. Lovely views!
Walking back down we watched a family of Swainson's hawks circling above a dry grassy hillside and soon found ourselves back at the bikes. We pedaled off to the Immigration Station on the paved perimeter road. This site has been extensively developed by the park. It doesn't look much like it did in the first half of the 20th century when hundreds of thousands of immigrants came through. The old hospital is undergoing repairs now and the administration building and dock are entirely gone. But just this summer the dedication of the site and a whole series of granite plaques with a photo etching process I've never seen shows the harsh side as well as the hope of Asian immigrants, mostly Chinese, who came through this gate.
The only building that was left and open to the public was the dormitory, about to close for the day when we arrived, with the peeling paint and metal bedposts left throughout. One pair was still rigged with three bunk beds to show the crowded conditions. Several books about the station were on display. I noted a copy of Lisa See's Shanghai Sisters which my SYC book group read last year.
While I read over the plaques and recalled history, Charlie was fascinated by the antics of the skipper of a motor sailor who was struggling to pull up his anchor. It seemed to be snagged on something intractable and no effort of his poor struggling windlass could free the hook. Attempts to work it loose with the engine belching clouds of black smoke also failed. Likely the bottom is foul with old pieces of wrecks and cables. Later Charlie's friend mentioned that it's a local divers' trove of salvage anchors!
We powered over to Tiburon to the Corinthian YC asking for dock space and ended up tying up to one of their buoys outside the breakwater. It was a bit rolly out there but fun to look up at the crowds of Folkboaters partying and nice to have live band music with our dinner. The seaward face of the tall white clubhouse is lined with REAL Corinthian Columns!
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