Home is where the wind is
[Copyright 1992 Luigi Semenzato.]

Italians and Germans can be good friends.  Take Bach and Vivaldi, for
instance; or Hitler and Mussolini; or Otto Benz and Dino Fiat.  I saw
no reason to spoil another famous friendship at the start.  I had to
agree.  Klaus was shaking his head, his narrowed eyes gazing at the
expanse of water between the Berkeley and Emeryville Marinas.  The
wind looked marginal at best.  He said ``Let's go to Crissy.''  We
loaded my stuff on Rusty, Klaus's VW van, and left.

``What time is it now?'' Klaus asked as we entered the freeway.
``Let's see how long it takes.''  I noted the time---3:15 on a
Saturday afternoon---but remarked: ``You know Klaus, I always check
the time when I am off to some place, but I always forget to check it
when I get there.  When I leave there is nothing to do for a while,
and my mind is free; but when I arrive I start planning all the things
I am supposed to do; and somehow checking the time is never among
them.''  ``It's true'' said Klaus, visibly enlightened by this
profound thought.

We reached Crissy at an unspecified time.  The fog had come in and we
were skunked again.  By the way, it wasn't really fog.  They call it
fog in San Francisco, but it's low clouds.  We called the windtalkers,
we spoke to other skunked people, and we concluded that the only place
with a chance of wind was Larkspur.  Once more, we became one with the
slow saturday afternoon traffic.  We crossed the Golden Gate and some
hills.  Larkspur had sun and wind, and all the windsurfers of the Bay
Area were there.

Parking at the main spot seemed impossible.  We did not try too hard.
Instead we drove to the small beach between San Quentin, the prison,
and the Richmond Bridge.  We unloaded, we rigged, and by the time we
were ready the wind had died.  We went out anyway, but it was the
usual slog, pump, almost plane, slog.  At 6:30 we left to go home.

On the way home, Klaus proposed: ``Why don't we check Point Isabel?''
``Well, maybe we shouldn't'' I said.  ``Let's just stop thinking about
it, so we won't be disappointed again.''  So we did what a true
windsurfer would have done.  We went to Point Isabel.  The low clouds
were rushing in from the Golden Gate, casting a dark shadow on the
shore; about a mile offshore the clouds ended and the water was
burning the gold of the setting sun; and there was wind, wind, wind!
We put our wetsuits on again.  They were cold and musty.  We entered
the water under the heavy cloud cover, at the only easy access on the
rocky shore.  I asked Klaus: ``How do we recognize this place when we
return?''  ``The tunnel, there'' he pointed.  ``You mean the tube'' I
said.  It was a drainage pipe.  We don't really speak English: we just
write it.

We waterstarted, and Klaus became a dark silhouette against the bright
stripe of light, jumping off the large swells.  I tried some jumps
too, but I always spun out on landing.  Sometime I recovered: other
times I was too tired and I let my back slide on the water, until it
engulfed me.  We sailed to the sun and back, then again and over,
chasing each other, always planing.  The wind was holding well.  The
sun set, the water took the color of a switched-off monitor, and the
yellow lights at the Costco parking lot came on.  The whitecaps were
no longer visible.  At the end I had to strain my eyes to see Klaus
when he was between me and the shore.  I caught up with him when he
missed a landing.  I jibed around him, and gave him the time-out
signal.  We sailed towards the point, and I was glad to see the
circular opening of the drainage pipe fifty yards away.  It was 8:45,
and we were happy.

We learned our lesson.  We traveled far looking for something; and in
the end, we found it at home.