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The Golden Gate

An ongoing series.

I spent a late afternoon at the Golden Gate--there where the surfers ride and then abandon waves, just before the black, wet rocks. The bridge rose from the warring currents up to the sky, a light mist dulling this evening’s version of vermillion orange.

Farther out the rowers cut through the shadow of the bridge and raced out to sea, into the sunlight. The water is so near there, so cold, colliding with itself, an angry, indigo, seductive mob.

I thought about being swept into it, letting the waves lift me, cradle me, carry me out into the bay. I lay back in the currents, hypnotized, surrounded by the wet and dry blues--that place where the water and the sky finally meet. And off in the distance, past the tips of a thousand waves and a fog late arriving, I see, just barely, a silhouette--a bridge so gracefully touched by both.