The Bay on Sunday Morning



Perhaps to go to Fort Mason on a sunny Sunday morning, that beautiful
relaxed moment of the whole week, and there to sit with others who have
no autos to go gallivanting in, and to sit idly gazing off at the bay.
That's not bad. To read a little and doze a bit, but mostly to gaze out
to sea and dream.

A big foreign steamer in port, perhaps a Scandinavian boat, inert,
enormous, helpless, while the little tugs chatter, around it and finally
get hold of it, and tug it slowly around with its nose pointing out to
sea. Lumber schooners come in slowly and rhythmically, long and low and
clean. The Vallejo boat, looking like a rocking horse, goes importantly
chugging off toward Mare Island. It's hard to read a book with so going
on out there.

Sunday morning, blessed play time, there is a fellow in a green canoe,
and the muscles of his body play into the movement of the waves until he
and his green canoe and the white capped waves are all one motif of the
whole symphony. Men play around the yacht club like a lot of school
boys, and now - "Shoot," they push a long slim racer into the water.
Dainty white yachts go dipping to the waves and seem like lovely young
girls in among the sturdier boats.

Now the fishermen come in from their night's work, making music all in