We’re sitting peacefully at anchor at Paradise Cove as the sun rises over San Pablo bay. We arrived last night and dropped the hook a few yards off the end of the pier.
The morning high speed ferry powers past, sending a wake to the shore. The waves roll under the boat, making it rock; the cupboards make the click-clunk noise so familiar when out at sea in a swell. The half finished bottle of rum from last night nearly slides off the galley onto the floor- it’s just rescued in time by falling into the sink. A minute later, the waves crash on the beach, and then all is calm again.
A man is taking his morning swim in front of the huge, luxurious beach homes. Rose and I try to decide which is the ugliest house. She tells me about her studio mate back in Sausalito, a lady in her forties who was born and grew up in this area. The two of them were out with our kayaks the other day, Maude saying how when she was a kid, there were no houses here, and how they found old arrow heads in the dirt, wondering whether it was an old Indian settlement. How much things have changed, in not very many years. There’s hardly a spot of spare land on this peninsula now.
The sun has decided that it wants to be the boss again today, and burns away the morning cloud by ten. I’ve only connected one of my solar panels up so far, and it’s starting to do its job, trickling some charge into the batteries. Rose is getting on with her knitting, and I’m just enjoying being out here.
We’re only half an hour away from our dock, but I feel we’re well and truly down the road towards self-sufficiency, a taste of future adventures a long way away from people and civilisation. Yesterday I finished installing the new alternator, which means that, when both solar panels are also connected, we’ll be covering all our electrical power needs without any help from the outside.
Last night’s wind has all but gone, with only a light zephyr blowing from the north. It brings with it the faint sound of trains and ships, making their busy way back and forth across on the other side of the bay in Richmond. Not a hundred yards away on land, the green hills are filled with bird song, and every now and then I catch a snip of conversation between the men fishing on the pier.
All is well.
Road and Ocean 