My son and I head down to the Berkeley Marina every other day because it's how Jacks falls to sleep calmly for a mid-day nap. In the last several months it was always about visiting the boats-- as much for me as the baby because it helps me remember my father and our family sloop. Often the loop around the Berkeley Yacht Club parking lot inspired some needed grief for may dad, especially when on a Friday a stiff wind lifts and heels a J120 and its racing crew as it rounds the marina's breakwater. I like to think also that I'll be able to raise my son in the multi-generational tradition of my Long Island Sound family, sailing big boats, racing and cruising.
Two weeks ago, our little Marina trip down the road was met with the white suits of the clean up crews. The 58,000 gallons of oil from our recent spill had been swept by wind and tide to our coastline, and the marina became the center of the Bay's clean-up effort. Birds we had come to take for granted in the past had become symbols of universal grief and guilt. And this time I cried not for my dad, but for these birds, the most visible and vulnerable to the spill. No one was on the bay: it smelled like oil. The bay was beautiful and empty as long as I kept my car window closed. I told my students the next day that we will be one day as the bay's wildlife is now; actually, we already are, only we aren't breathing liquid oil just living off it surreptitiously. It's telling that the best way to put my son down for a nap is by driving because, after all, he spent far too much time in a car already in his short life, even though our family drives less than 40 miles a week.
