Where The Good Stuff Swims

Photograph by guest photographer Dennis Bayer

Writing on The Dock of The Bay

This morning seals and sea lions swim just off our float and  pelicans soar through the air. The herring are running and the eating is good. One seal looks our way before it submerges. Sometimes they simply drop below the surface; sometimes they do a serpentine dive, slick bodies glinting in the light, as they go below to where the good stuff swims. It's the same with writing. The good stuff is always below the surface. And when the writing's going well,  we plunge in and lose all track of time . . . and later wonder where the time went and where did the story we just wrote come from. . . I learn from my marine friends, though I've never attempted a serpentine submersion on my laptop! I learn from this time on the water, too, where houseboats reflect on the channel's glassy surface while I reflect on the smooth screen of this Mac. I count seven seals this morning. I sip my coffee. I learn that it's a good day not to be a herring. 

Flamingos of South Forty

The Social Life of Water                                                                                                                                           by Tony Hoagland

All water is a part of other water.                                                                                                                     Cloud talks to lake; mist                                                                                                                                  speaks quietly to creek.

Lake says something back to cloud,                                                                                                                   and cloud listens.                                                                                                                                                    No water is lonely water.

All water is a part of other water.                                                                                                                       River rushes to reunite with ocean;                                                                                                                     tree drinks rain and sweats out dew;                                                                                                                  dew takes elevator into cloud;                                                                                                                         cloud marries puddle;                                                                                                                                                                                       puddle

has long conversation with lake about fjord;                                                                                                       fog sneaks up and murmurs insinuations to swamp;                                                                                    swamp makes needs known to marshland.                                                                                                                                  . . .  (excerpt)      

Sometimes I feel . . .

like I'm being lapped by a previous life!

Out For a Walk Between Winter Storms

Flying Colors

Denizens of the Dock

Neighbors Ryan and Stewart invited everyone on our dock to cruise the bay aboard their beautiful 100 year old ship, Mirene -  a lovely new year tradition.  We savored delicious food and drink and enjoyed soaring pelicans and frolicking seals amidst the stunning views of where we call home. We were a neighborhood underway on a very special day; smiling in this new year aboard an amazing 64 foot former schooner, turned tug, savoring the generosity and warm friendship of fine neighbors. 

Following Rain

Best Dock Find  Ever

Light & Air

Long live those who have the love of color -­‐ true representatives of light and air. - Cezanne

"Look!" she said.

Denizen of The Dock

Where Will We Go

Writing on The Dock of The Bay

Seymour was a ray of orange light in the sunrise of first day. He spread himself across the sky and over the deep blue bay, surrounded by other rays of light - Lady Red and Deep Purple, Big Pink and Touch of Grey, all part of something bigger, all coming from the same source - the rising & majestic burning orb called Sun. Birds soared on sea breeze currents. Solitary people watched from shore and small boats that bobbed in the water. One or two snapped photos. Another painted from an easel on the wharf. Seymour, who didn't consider himself photo or paint-a-genic, admired his tiny self and friends on the thick white canvas, though Big Pink seemed a bit much, and Touch of Grey hadn't made the painting at all. Typical. As Sun climbed the horizon, Seymour felt himself fading, receding into Bright Yellow and Vast Blue. He didn't know where he was going or when he would return, or if fog would crash the party next time, or if clouds and rain or lightning - which he loved like an outlaw cousin, would prevent him from appearing. He didn't worry. For he knew, someday he would return, once again spreading across the sky, lighting the world and the lives of those who pause and gaze, in moments suspended, ensconced in the feel and glow of color and light.

Rainbow Harbor

Current Photo

New Year's Resolution

All We Need Is . . . Frost

Best Dock Find Ever

Midnight Kiss

Writing on The Dock of The Bay

As the clock approached midnight, Santos lifted himself out of bed. Sylvia was at the window in her nightie watching the lights of the boats on the water. They heard footsteps on the dock and people gathering as the clock wound down . . . or was it up? Santos could never figure that out - at some point in life, the uphill climb maybe leveled out for awhile and then somewhere along the way actually became a downhill slope and then . . . and then it was like that line in The Sun Also Rises: slowly at first, then all at once. Maybe that was it. Why did Santos suddenly remember that line from 40 years ago, in a book written 80 years back, as he stood in the window with midnight approaching next to a woman he'd been with for 43 years? Down on the dock, a voice shouted - Happy New Year! Another answered - Happy New Year to you!  Fireworks flared above the City and if you looked just right, peering through the windows of a two story houseboat down the way you could see a showering of red and blue and gold as rockets peaked, exploded, and descended in remnants of color against the dark sky. Santos reached for Sylvia. She smiled, so lovely in the moonlight, as they kissed and welcomed in another new year together.  

Good Neighbors

Denizens of The Dock

Merry Floating Christmas

The Twenty Dollar Smile

Writing On The Dock of The Bay

A nurse drove home through the City after work and stopped at a traffic light on Van Ness. A man with a cup stood on the median. She had seen him there many times before - lean and haggard with a straggly beard, a guitar case at his feet. She made it a practice not to give money. Sometimes, she had a tangerine from lunch that she would give away. But this December night it was clear and cold, very cold. She sat in her car waiting for the green light with her heater on, freezing. He must be really freezing, she thought. So she did something she never does. She reached into her purse and grabbed a bill. A twenty was all she had. She gulped, opened her window, and gave it to him. The man looked at the twenty dollar bill in disbelief. Are you sure???  he asked. Yes, she nodded. I'm so happy he said, his face lighting up with a smile. I can eat a hot meal tonight and I can buy a new string for my guitar and next time I see you I will play you a song - okay? She smiled and nodded and said, Yes, thank you. Then the light turned green. She drove towards home, his smile lighting the way.

Things I've Seen Float By

Blaze's Boat

Morning Light

Writing Light

Writing On The Dock of The Bay

Once I asked my friend Leonard Gardner to help me figure out how to put a new ribbon in my old Smith & Corona upright. He came downstairs to our dim flat where my typewriter sat on a bright blue table and typed: ‘First we must have light.’ I’ve never forgotten that, and now some thirty years later sitting in a room full of light I think how it works both ways – how we need light to write, and how writing itself provides us with light, how it casts meaning and understanding onto the page and allows us to play with our shadow.    

Feline of SoFo