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Creek Running North
July 20, 2003
Isla de los angeles
Twenty-one years living in the Bay Area, and today's the first time I've ever been to Angel Island. Becky'd never been there either. We loaded bikes onto the ferry at Tiburon, crossed Raccoon Strait - where the Pleistocene Sacramento River flowed out to the ocean off the Farallones - and landed an hour and a half before the friends we were supposed to meet.
Angel Island is to Becky as Ellis Island is to me. Her father's father spent a bit of time incarcerated here, quarantined as a Chinese alien - undesirable by law - until he persuaded the grudging authorities he belonged here.
We rode to a promontory looking out over the strait, found a bench, waited for the ferry bearing our friends. I watched Becky watching the horizon. Did her grandfather look up at these tawn hills, thinking his granddaughter might someday visit this place of confinement on a weekend lark?
I like to think so.