Today a blessed breeze carries me back more than half a century to a little pier that juts out adjacent to the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, called Fort Point.
It is Sunday, and in the womb of that infinite afternoon, as I sit silently by my father, the two of us nominally fishing for crabs, the caw of fluttering seagulls echoes lazily in the warm wind.
Inhaling once again the intoxicating old creosote smeared on the pier’s pilings, stirred with the salty sea aromas and the richness of the lingering fish flavors drying out along the pier, I gaze out across the bay, which is speckled with the white sails of dozens of boats criss-crossing through the emerald waters.
Time dissolves in the perfection of this moment, and tears stream freely down my face. This was before I knew anything at all, and yet, sitting here in the midst of my reveries, I realize that everything I needed to know was known completely in that moment, and my father knew it too.
Now it all passes through me like this soft summer wind, and I am like a swinging door, no longer remembering in from out, past from present — just enjoying this breeze of memory, this afternoon in timelessness.