Isla San Francisco
Flanked by the Sierra de la Gigante and gulf islands that break a clean horizon line like a shark bite, we are living by the light. Indeed, this is a photo expedition, so our eyes met with gratitude the first pulse of green in this morning’s sunrise. And what time did the sun rise? To deviate from Ms. Gertrude Stein: It rose when it rose. That is to say we’ve abandoned the convention of daylight savings time and set our clocks to the sun.
We sailed through a tranquil San Jose Channel toward our anchorage in Half Moon Bay, just off Isla San Francisco—an hourglass freckle in the vast gulf. Turquoise waters and a white sand beach welcomed bare feet and basking. We explored the narrow inland floodplain, bleached at its core by salt and ringed with a gradient of halophytes. Above the floodplain’s water line some of the least forgiving cacti—the true tyrant among them the cholla—cast shadows reminiscent of weapons.
And as our shadows grew long and stretched over the land, we responded by trekking a steep path to a westward facing ridge—the Sea Lion a stark silhouette in a golden band of sun on water. Here we sat—our eyes keyed to the light, to its play on the water—and watched the fire turn to embers and the embers dip below the jagged peaks of the Sierra de la Gigante.
A descent in the gloaming, a faint chill in the air, we head back to our cozy ship—living by the light, the sun whispering sweet dreams.
Flanked by the Sierra de la Gigante and gulf islands that break a clean horizon line like a shark bite, we are living by the light. Indeed, this is a photo expedition, so our eyes met with gratitude the first pulse of green in this morning’s sunrise. And what time did the sun rise? To deviate from Ms. Gertrude Stein: It rose when it rose. That is to say we’ve abandoned the convention of daylight savings time and set our clocks to the sun.
We sailed through a tranquil San Jose Channel toward our anchorage in Half Moon Bay, just off Isla San Francisco—an hourglass freckle in the vast gulf. Turquoise waters and a white sand beach welcomed bare feet and basking. We explored the narrow inland floodplain, bleached at its core by salt and ringed with a gradient of halophytes. Above the floodplain’s water line some of the least forgiving cacti—the true tyrant among them the cholla—cast shadows reminiscent of weapons.
And as our shadows grew long and stretched over the land, we responded by trekking a steep path to a westward facing ridge—the Sea Lion a stark silhouette in a golden band of sun on water. Here we sat—our eyes keyed to the light, to its play on the water—and watched the fire turn to embers and the embers dip below the jagged peaks of the Sierra de la Gigante.
A descent in the gloaming, a faint chill in the air, we head back to our cozy ship—living by the light, the sun whispering sweet dreams.
