The Seawall
Copyright 1992 Luigi Semenzato.

`I am not sure' I said.  We stood on top of the seawall on the
northern section of the Berkeley Marina.  Behind us killer kites
chased each other roaring.  Below us, rugged grey boulders sloped
steeply until the grey changed into mushy dark green, a vegetable
layer fed by the pounding surf.  Some wind, not much.  Cold and
overcast.  I was trying to say ``no'' politely.

Klaus threw his hands up, just like an Italian.  `Luigi!  You are
*never* sure!  Now come on, let's get ready, then we'll think about
it.'  This guy knows how to convince.  He touches the right nerves,
pauses at the right times.  He synchronizes with your thoughts, gently
pushing them towards uncertainty; and when they are on the edge, he
gives them the final swing.  He must have practiced a lot with his
parents.  I rigged.  After that there was no escape, even though the
wind had dropped to the level of a difficult waterstart.  `We just go
over there.  There is wind there' he said, pointing somewhere north.
I could not see anything special.  `It's an easy reach, then we find
the wind.'

The seawall was a perfect chance to sharpen our slime-climbing skills.
This little-known sport combines the challenges of free climbing and
mud wrestling.  When played at the expert level, you are not allowed
to use your hands: and to make sure you don't, you must carry some
expensive piece of equipment that has little affection for rugged
rocks.  At the professional level, you also get large amounts of water
thrown on you at random intervals.  It's very exciting.  It would be
more popular if it didn't have such a high fatality rate.

After a long slog to the north, I felt that familiar feeling, that tug
on the harness line and the arms.  The sail became an extension of my
body, a strong muscle that I could flex to propel myself.  I leaned
back, pulled on it, and I was flying again.  I reached Klaus, who had
just crashed on a jump.  I carved a nice arc around him, flipped the
sail, and did not fall!  Klaus yelled with enthusiasm.  I sailed to
him and joined him in the water.  He said: `I *told* you there was
wind here!'  `Klaus, I hate it when you are right.  But this time you
are forgiven.'  We shook hands.

We kept sailing north until we reached the sun and its blinding
reflections.  The wind was too strong there, so we sailed back until
we found a good compromise.  The rest of the session was uneventful:
except at one point I found myself going at full speed towards a freak
wave with a steep four foot wall.  I tried to absorb the lift but it
was too much.  While I was airborne I pulled the tail in, and landed
without spinning out.  Stuff like this doesn't help my addiction.