From: Luigi Semenzato (luigi@paris.CS.Berkeley.EDU) Subject: The Happy Crowd of Third Avenue Newsgroups: rec.windsurfing Date: 1994-07-04 09:52:52 PST THE HAPPY CROWD OF THIRD AVENUE Luigi Semenzato, 1994 Every windsurfing site has a distinct character, shaped partly by its geography, partly the people who sail there. Luckily, sailborders are friendly everywhere; but there are many degrees of friendliness. Crissy Field, the beach in San Francisco near the Golden Gate, is a beautiful place, but it's like going to a large skiing resort: nobody knows anybody. And the visitor cannot help but perceive, perhaps mistakenly, a bit of snobbery, a line of collective unconscious thought that goes: `Hey, this is the coolest city in the United States and therefore, as far as I am concerned, in the whole world, and this is the best urban windsurfing one can ever get (five minutes from home!), and windsurfing is the absolutely coolest conceivable sport, and I am certainly not going to rig for this stinking five point five wind.' Across the Bay, sailors at the cozy Berkeley Marina form a few small groups of close friends. They have known each other for years, and each group is socially self-sufficient. They are polite to newcomers, and even friendly, but it's obvious to them that a new person, probably associated with the University or one of the labs, will be around for a couple of seasons and then disappear forever. It's just not worth the investment. At Point Isabel in Richmond sailors don't talk to each other: they are too busy keeping the dogs off their sails. Then there is Third Avenue. It's a rather uninspired name for a windsurfing spot (hey, it's uninspired as a street name), but Americans seldom trade convenience for artsiness. This name does its job; once you are on the right freeway, it gets you there. The site is close to the west end of the San Mateo Bridge, the least interesting bridge in the area, and it has no scenery. The San Francisco skyline is a faraway dream. The Hayward hills underline a featureless horizon on the other side of the Bay. An access path through the rip-rap ends in caffelatte-colored water. `At low tide, this place is practically unsailable' Ken tells me. `It can be a long walk in the mud. And the sand bars stalk just below the surface, hungry for fins.' After hearing so much about Third Avenue, (Third here, Third there, Third so-and-so), I had to check for myself. I dug up an old friendship from the days when I worked for a living. Ken sails there often, and he proudly advertises that his workplace is `only twenty-seven minutes from Third.' Ken is my host and sailing buddy for the day. It's still early and the wind is light. We hang out in the rigging area. `Oh, here is Jerome' Ken says. Big fellow. `He is the local speed demon. Jerome, this is Luigi. Nice board you have there, Jerome.' `Yeh, I just got it from my sponsor. It's hollow. Voila, check.' He hands it to Ken. I hardly believe it, a racer who not only mingles with the lowly recreational sailors, but will let them **hold his board**. `Mmmmm, nice!' says Ken. `How expensive?' `Oh, I don't know, about two thousand.' Another guy comes over. `Hi Scott, this is Luigi, the t-shirt guy.' More people join and soon there is a small crowd of people chatting and making jokes and taking turns at estimating the weight of Jerome's two-thousand dollar board. Obviously not a clique, many of them are just meeting for the first time. Where do these people come from? Of course, I know where they come from. They are Silicon Valley engineers, the Forty-niners of Ninety-four. They came here from all over the world with their technical knowledge as a pickaxe, to stake a claim in the mysterious and exciting market of high-speed electronics. For them, Third Avenue is the closest place with reliable wind; it is their gateway into a different lifestyle, one of sun and wind and high-speed faceplants. Some are fresh out of college and far from home; their colleagues at work can design real hot memory systems, but can't windsurf. Others have known each other for years through e-mail, and as they bump into each other in real life they can finally attach a face to a login name. At Third, everybody is potentially a good friend, and they all know it---and what more could one ask for? Electronics, wind, and good friends. It used to be wine, women, and song, but this is the Nineties. Eventually someone notices that the wind is up. Without hurrying, the crowd breaks and scatters. Ken and I go out. At first the wind is marginal for our four-sevens, but it keeps strengthening until we are fully powered. About a mile offshore, in the deep-water channel, the ebbing tide and the wind are conjuring some serious swell, the specialty of Third. For me, it's the biggest swell ever. On a port tack jumping is easy, not jumping much harder. I am somewhat fearful for my physical integrity. I follow Ken and watch him fly and crash. His helmeted head pops out of the water with a smile. Ah, it can't be that bad. I go for it. Woosh! Too high! I round up in the air, fall on my back. OK, gotta refine the landing technique. On the starboard tack, it's mogul time. I am riding mountains of mud, barely in control. Too much fin I suppose, sailing four-seven to six-two with only one fin is pushing it. Then, back in the shallow stretch and the swell turns into small chop, and I can relax before charging again. Phew. I like this place. Some day the wild frontier will be gone, and the rugged Third Avenue site will become a posh, urban shoreline with poodles and a name like Caffelatte Point. The engineers will be replaced by doctors, lawyers, and IRS employees. Progress can't be stopped. But in my mind Third will never change, with its mud, its barrennes, the power of its winds, the warmth of its people.