From: Luigi Semenzato (luigi@paris.CS.Berkeley.EDU)
 Subject: The Happy Crowd of Third Avenue 
 Newsgroups: rec.windsurfing
 Date: 1994-07-04 09:52:52 PST 


THE HAPPY CROWD OF THIRD AVENUE         Luigi Semenzato, 1994

Every windsurfing site has a distinct character, shaped partly by its
geography, partly the people who sail there.  Luckily, sailborders are
friendly everywhere; but there are many degrees of friendliness.
Crissy Field, the beach in San Francisco near the Golden Gate, is a
beautiful place, but it's like going to a large skiing resort: nobody
knows anybody.  And the visitor cannot help but perceive, perhaps
mistakenly, a bit of snobbery, a line of collective unconscious
thought that goes: `Hey, this is the coolest city in the United States
and therefore, as far as I am concerned, in the whole world, and this
is the best urban windsurfing one can ever get (five minutes from
home!), and windsurfing is the absolutely coolest conceivable sport,
and I am certainly not going to rig for this stinking five point five
wind.'

Across the Bay, sailors at the cozy Berkeley Marina form a few small
groups of close friends.  They have known each other for years, and
each group is socially self-sufficient.  They are polite to newcomers,
and even friendly, but it's obvious to them that a new person,
probably associated with the University or one of the labs, will be
around for a couple of seasons and then disappear forever.  It's just
not worth the investment.  At Point Isabel in Richmond sailors don't
talk to each other: they are too busy keeping the dogs off their
sails.

Then there is Third Avenue.  It's a rather uninspired name for a
windsurfing spot (hey, it's uninspired as a street name), but
Americans seldom trade convenience for artsiness.  This name does its
job; once you are on the right freeway, it gets you there.  The site
is close to the west end of the San Mateo Bridge, the least
interesting bridge in the area, and it has no scenery.  The San
Francisco skyline is a faraway dream.  The Hayward hills underline a
featureless horizon on the other side of the Bay.  An access path
through the rip-rap ends in caffelatte-colored water.  `At low tide,
this place is practically unsailable' Ken tells me.  `It can be a long
walk in the mud.  And the sand bars stalk just below the surface,
hungry for fins.'  After hearing so much about Third Avenue, (Third
here, Third there, Third so-and-so), I had to check for myself.  I dug
up an old friendship from the days when I worked for a living.  Ken
sails there often, and he proudly advertises that his workplace is
`only twenty-seven minutes from Third.'  Ken is my host and sailing
buddy for the day.

It's still early and the wind is light.  We hang out in the rigging
area.  `Oh, here is Jerome' Ken says.  Big fellow.  `He is the local
speed demon.  Jerome, this is Luigi.  Nice board you have there,
Jerome.'

`Yeh, I just got it from my sponsor.  It's hollow.  Voila, check.'  He
hands it to Ken.  I hardly believe it, a racer who not only mingles
with the lowly recreational sailors, but will let them **hold his
board**.

`Mmmmm, nice!' says Ken.  `How expensive?'

`Oh, I don't know, about two thousand.'  Another guy comes over.  `Hi
Scott, this is Luigi, the t-shirt guy.'  More people join and soon
there is a small crowd of people chatting and making jokes and taking
turns at estimating the weight of Jerome's two-thousand dollar board.
Obviously not a clique, many of them are just meeting for the first
time.  Where do these people come from?

Of course, I know where they come from.  They are Silicon Valley
engineers, the Forty-niners of Ninety-four.  They came here from all
over the world with their technical knowledge as a pickaxe, to stake a
claim in the mysterious and exciting market of high-speed electronics.
For them, Third Avenue is the closest place with reliable wind; it is
their gateway into a different lifestyle, one of sun and wind and
high-speed faceplants.  Some are fresh out of college and far from
home; their colleagues at work can design real hot memory systems, but
can't windsurf.  Others have known each other for years through
e-mail, and as they bump into each other in real life they can finally
attach a face to a login name.  At Third, everybody is potentially a
good friend, and they all know it---and what more could one ask for?
Electronics, wind, and good friends.  It used to be wine, women, and
song, but this is the Nineties.

Eventually someone notices that the wind is up.  Without hurrying, the
crowd breaks and scatters.  Ken and I go out.  At first the wind is
marginal for our four-sevens, but it keeps strengthening until we are
fully powered.  About a mile offshore, in the deep-water channel, the
ebbing tide and the wind are conjuring some serious swell, the
specialty of Third.  For me, it's the biggest swell ever.  On a port
tack jumping is easy, not jumping much harder.  I am somewhat fearful
for my physical integrity.  I follow Ken and watch him fly and crash.
His helmeted head pops out of the water with a smile.  Ah, it can't be
that bad.  I go for it.  Woosh!  Too high!  I round up in the air,
fall on my back.  OK, gotta refine the landing technique.

On the starboard tack, it's mogul time.  I am riding mountains of mud,
barely in control.  Too much fin I suppose, sailing four-seven to
six-two with only one fin is pushing it.  Then, back in the shallow
stretch and the swell turns into small chop, and I can relax before
charging again.  Phew.  I like this place.

Some day the wild frontier will be gone, and the rugged Third Avenue
site will become a posh, urban shoreline with poodles and a name like
Caffelatte Point.  The engineers will be replaced by doctors, lawyers,
and IRS employees.  Progress can't be stopped.  But in my mind Third
will never change, with its mud, its barrennes, the power of its
winds, the warmth of its people.
