BUS, BARQUE, AND BLOAT

I had a bad bus ride this weekend. No, two. The buses were packed to the point of bursting, people pressed, grimacing, excusing, squirming, yearning for escape. At the time I thought, What country am I in? Is this how we run bussing in the world’s richest nation? You could call it petulance. MUNI lacks funds, some ride for lack of options, traffic is unpredictable, I am a bratty pissant with bratty indignation that screams out for a swift kick in the junk, I know. That’s why I’m ending this paragraph. Dude, that’s like so meta!

One bus was taking Archie and me to meet Tony at the San Francisco Maritime National Historic Park, a wonderful set of museums, exhibits, and restored ships relating to maritime history on the Pacific Coast. Reading Patrick O’Brian novels has shown my old love of spaceships to extend back in time to the age of sail. Barques, snows, pinks, clippers, maintop gallant sails, jibs, booms, the poop and the spanker! History is replete with targets of nerdly obsession, but the age of sail seems tailor-made for nerd out. The museum had all manner of models and artifacts, demonstrating the kinds of trade passing through the area, unique ships on the Pacific Coast, and some amazing views of San Francisco harbors prickled with masts. Today’s Bay has plenty of ships, big container barges, oil rigs, private yachts, but nothing like this. I thought the museum lacked flow and direction, with no cohesive narrative to guide your discovery, but it was still fun and informative.

There were several restored vessels docked and open for exploration, the most impressive of which was a steel-hulled square-rigger from the late 19th century. The steel hull was jarring. Even though any wooden ship would have plenty of metal parts and cargo, a metal hull seems like a threshold, the point at which the whole technology begins to feel completely beyond the realm of personal achievement. I certainly couldn’t build a ship with my hands, but I can imagine how it is done: cut down trees, make planks, bend and trim them to the shape desired, join and seal. I wouldn’t know where to go to find metal, let alone craft it into a hull-shaped mass.

After literally boring Archie and Tony to the point of departure with my insistence on actually reading descriptive placards, I decided I was sated, and went home.

Today, I wanted spaghetti with meat sauce. Like, onions, ground beef, and canned tomatoes. I bought a $10 bottle of Spanish grenache. I ate three servings of spaghetti and drank 3/4 of the bottle, by myself, watching the commentary track to the The 40-Year-Old Virgin. Now I sit at my desk, barely, stealing furtive glances over my shoulder in anticipation of a stiff harpoon and a salty cry of “Whale ho!” They will haul me to, roll and cut, roll and cut, as gulls pick and sharks thrash. My fat will rend and the stench will test the crew’s endurance and the cooper’s industry before it lights lamps in cities dark and distant.