Where I Loved: China Beach

Many have left their hearts in San Francisco and mine is among them.

I lived and worked in 'the city' and, decades ago, had been delivered to 'Babylon-by-the-Bay' in pursuit of a bachelor's degree from San Francisco State University (that I affectionately called 'Hayakawa Tech.' for its President made infamous for mishandling student protesters on-strike from classes).


China Beach became my personal retreat, my study hall, my place to picnic and snuggle with my girlfriend.

I'd thumb-hook my text-laden book bag and jump off the Geary Street bus near 25th Avenue to wind my way through gently curved streets hosting Pacific Heights' mansions (the Russian embassy among them) with lawns as meticulous as Japanese gardens, and I'd amble down to see the Pacific Ocean fronted by a parking lot good for but 30 or so cars adjacent to steep, railway-tie steps at this oft-deserted spot called "China Beach" with its unique view of the Golden Gate Bridge from open sea.

Sometimes I'd daydream I was a sailor on-deck of a battleship returning from war, seeing the bridge through misted homesick and proud eyes, watching sign-wavers, banner bearers and well-wishers drop flowers as we stood at rigid attention with the Stars 'n Stripes flying, and ship's band playing 'Anchors Aweigh' as her superstructure cleared the bridge's underpinnings.


The wet fog's approach and slow swallow of the bridge seemed like a snake's consumption of its prey, only intensifying the surf's pounding and vibrance of colors when I'd find myself wishing my solitude was shared by a painter who could capture the majesty before me, my city, my bridge...and that heart spellbound in awe upon his canvas.