From: Luigi Semenzato (luigi@paris.CS.Berkeley.EDU)
 Subject: The Red Towers 
 Newsgroups: rec.windsurfing
 Date: 1993-10-04 09:27:47 PST 


THE RED TOWERS                          Copyright (C) 1993, Luigi Semenzato

September is dying and the wind season is abandoning us.  As I come
back from lunch, bathed by the warm rays of the autumn sun, my cheek
and nape feel a few puffs of cold air.  Perhaps it has cooled in the
shadow of a campus building; or invisible currents pushed it down from
the freezing layer in the upper atmosphere.  Or...

My eyes turn west and catch small cutouts of blue water among the
buildings.  Could it be?  After all, the morning was overcast: the
wind machine might still be alive.  I go upstairs, call Klaus.
`Klaus?  There is wind, do you want to go?'

`What... how much wind?'

`I don't know.  Let's check.'  I connect the Crissy windtalker in
conference.  `Hello, the wind is from eleven to twentynine, average
eighteen.'

`There, I told you!'

`Well... I have a paper due tomorrow... I have to think about it... OK,
let's go!'

We go home and load and leave and take the Point Isabel exit, a small
detour to check if we can avoid the longish drive.  But it's very very
marginal there so we drive north, cross the bay, take 101 south and in
twenty minutes flat the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge greet us, two
red giants with their feet in the water and their heads in the clouds.
`Take this exit!  Let's launch by the north tower!' says Klaus.

`Klaus, I don't want to climb mushy seawalls or anything like that:
the beach at the Presidio is perfectly good for launching.'

`OK, but let's at least take a look.'  We drive down to the small
marina near the bridge, and we find something that resembles a beach,
in the sense that it slopes gently into the water and is reachable
from the road and has no visible death traps, such as quickmud.  Let's
not discuss other details: I am not picky.  The wind line appears to
be only a short swim away.  Beyond that, the water starts flat;
further out it turns into a churning mess.  The wind seems strong, but
it's hard to judge.  We spot a couple of sailors in the distance.
They have large sails and are obviously overpowered.  We decide on
4.7s.

As we rig, a small open vehicle with a bunch of guys in foul weather
gear parks next to us, and they get out in a hurry.  One of them asks:
`You are not going out, are you?'

Uh-oh, have we picked a bad spot?  Klaus replies: `Well, yes, is there
some problem?'

`No, but we are going to rescue a colleague of yours who is taking a
ride on the tide.  Just watch out, it's ebbing hard.'  They board a
Coast Guard vessel, and leave the dock.  The boat rocks violently as
it enters the chop zone.  Klaus and I watch it until it's out of
sight, then we look at each other.  `Do you think what I am thinking?'
I say.

`Yes.  The wind doesn't look that strong anymore.  Maybe we should rig
bigger.'

`My thoughts too.  But let's try anyway.'

Our heroes enter the water, and once again I wonder about the
mysteries of the human mind.  The bright colors of our sails struggle
to stay alive in a grey and cold universe.  A long time ago people
invented homes, and fireplaces: what are we doing here?  Soon we reach
the wind line and these thoughts vanish.  Very fickle wind!  I uphaul
and fence my way through the gusty zone with utmost concentration.
And just as the wind steadies and I start planing, the Evil Chop
begins.  It's deep, short, random, and it breaks.  My board feels like
a wild untamed horse (this is not just fancy imagery: I speak from
experience).  It slaps and whacks the water with frightening violence,
and many times the bow threatens to plant itself on the side of a
swell.  I hang so tight from the boom that the harness is practically
useless.  I must be good or something because I make it through.
About halfway between the towers the chop becomes normal again.  Only
then I dare look back, and after much visual scanning I see Klaus'
sail, a splotch of color in a black-and-white picture, on the rocks by
the entrance to the marina.

The implicit pact of mutual assistance forces me to go back.  The Evil
Chop is just as bad in that direction, and when I reach the dead zone
my balance is shot.  I struggle for a few minutes, most of them in the
water.  My hope gauge moves fast towards EMPTY.  When I realize how
quickly the tide is pushing me towards the north tower, I acknowledge
that Klaus (his fault as usual) picked a one-way launch site.  Not
sure about what to do next, but eager to get back to a place where I
am in control, I sail south and soon I see that Klaus is already on
the other side of the Evil Chop.  He had made it out as I was trying
to go in.  I catch up with him and we dunk near the south tower.
`What happened to you?' I ask.  `Why did you stop on the seawall?'

`I wanted to BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH' The fog horn on the south
tower drowns his answer.  He smiles and waits.  `I wanted to make sure
there was enough wind for our 4.7s, so I watched you.'  Fair enough:
his board is sinkier than mine.  And, indeed, there was enough wind
for our 4.7s.  We stay near the south tower.  The wind is steady, the
chop almost nil, and we swish through beautiful, effortless jibes, one
after the other, the bridge on one side and the city on the other,
sailing in a postcard.  Time passes in a mirthful bliss, all fears
forgotten.  Time passes, and it's time to go back.

`Klaus, there is no way BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH I said, there is no
way we can make it back.  Let's land at the Presidio and hitch a ride
to our car.'

`Aw, come on, we can make it.  We just swim a little.'

`I am telling you, I have tried!'

`Luigi, come on, we can make it, I am sure.  Come on, let's go.'  He
insists so much that convincing him is harder than fighting the ebb.
We both go, but after a short initial struggle I just don't see the
point.  I sail out to the wind, sit on the board, and watch the
amazing human stubborness in action.  He makes slow progress.  When he
is far enough into the dead zone, I figure that whatever happens I can
no longer help.  I sail to the south shore and land at the beach
closest to the bridge with no difficulty.  There are a few other
windsurfers.  One of them tells me: `It was amazing out there, wasn't
it?  What a day!'

`Quite so!  Hey, I was wondering if I can ask a little favor.  My car
is on the other side, could you drive me there?'

`Your car is WHERE?'

`We launched at the marina near the north end of the bridge.  My
friend is trying to land there.'

`Oh!'  A couple of other guys join in.  One of them is not wearing a
wetsuit.  `Hey, I'll take you' he says `if you pay the bridge toll.'

`Of course!  I'll even offer you a beer.'  We jump on his topless red
Jeep Wrangler and cross the bridge.  The guy is nice, like most
windsurfers.  He is a buyer for the Sharper Image.  We arrive at the
marina and find that Klaus has just made it, after climbing a truly
horrible seawall.  `Oh, no, it wasn't that bad' he says.  `Going down,
maybe, but I was coming up.'

We say goodbye to the Jeep guy and cross the bridge once more, to
recover my gear.  It's getting dark, and it's still windy.  I tell
Klaus: `I know the perfect place for dinner' and I take him to the
Burger King at the Presidio, a large and clean building with a view of
the Golden Gate.  But it's closed already.  We drive away in the dusk
and we are just one of thousands of cars in the streets of San
Francisco.