A bit more exploring
Alameda is an island in San Francisco Bay across the estuary from the Oakland docks where cargo ships gather and rats swim to shore. The western side of the island is landfill, and it abuts San Francisco Bay. The Rodgers Fault lies underground only ten minutes, traffic withstanding, to the east, and I would feel jittery being at Walgreens during an earthquake. I wonder where the landfill came from. Is there an Alameda-sized hole somewhere?
Regardless, I was in Alameda’s Washington Park on a sunny afternoon as two teams gathered to play their version of vintage baseball. Players dressed in old-fashioned uniforms. An umpire looking like a citified Judge Roy Bean stood behind the pitcher. Each position player used a glove sort of like the one I use to put logs in my wood stove.
Play resembled modern baseball with a few rule changes. Pitchers threw overhand and fairly hard, but there was no windup. I counted three batters who got plunked by those hard pitches and they had nothing to show for it but the opportunity to stand in for another pitch. It took seven or eight balls before a batter earned a walk, and one batter hit foul balls for five minutes before a swing and miss, and that was strike one.
The longest hit of the day was a fly to centerfield, and the fielder stumbled through a gaggle of Canada Geese before misjudging it. All in all, there was earnest effort, dives to stop grounders headed through the infield, daring baserunning until they got tired, and it was entertaining for a baseball fan. Bottom line for me was my mediocre B-league softball team back in the day would have beat either team. Nothing personal.
And there’s this, and it’s very important: running east-west through the island of Alameda is Wilver “Willie” Stargell Avenue. That’s cool.
And wouldn’t you know, a long-time friend became a pilot when I wasn’t paying attention, so that meant an aerial tour of counties north of San Francisco in a tiny plane that should have scared my sneakers off. Regarding the pilot, I was impressed by her focus on important details, such as how to fly a plane, had improved over the years.
The grand tour followed the Petaluma River south to San Francisco Bay. The little Cessna turned right and flew 2000 feet above the Golden Gate Bridge, turned right again and headed north along the coast. I roamed these byways by land for 30 years, but the perspective changed dramatically as we elevated toward 3000 feet.
Soon after our turn northward, I saw Highway 1 veer east away from the coast, and beside it was a picturesque narrow valley which is the site of Green Gulch Farm, a Zen Buddhist center with an organic farm and garden that folks like me dream of. The center offers apprentice programs so folks can learn how to garden the biodynamic way, or you can meditate with the pros.
Further north, I got a view of Drake’s Bay that Sir Francis never had. To be honest, he got a few views here and there I’ve never seen, but other than that, we’re the same-famous explorers.
Just inland from there was Tomales Bay, a narrow inlet of the Pacific, and then to the north was Bodega Bay where I would escape to when Petaluma got too hot. This was like old home week for me. Many times, we would overlook the ocean and watch either oystercatchers, cormorants or seals, depending on which side of Bodega Head we sat on.
The Cessna turned right when we got to Jenner. That’s where the Russian River flows into the ocean, and quickly inland we were above where Korbel grows grapes and makes your favorite sparkling wine. A slight course change northwest led us over fresh green undergrowth trying to refresh areas recently burned to a crisp by one of those horrible fires.
Then southward we went over vineyard after vineyard in Alexander Valley. If you’re a vineyard, this where you want to live, but it’s a crowded neighborhood for grape vines.
And then we landed in Santa Rosa, and we did not crash even once. Wow! What a pleasure to see thirty years of memories from 3000 feet.