San Francisco: Kitesurfing & Nightlife

Scott wakes me up at 8.30am. Surfing? Me? Nope…but watching, swell should be good. We drive to Ocean Beach south of Golden Gate. I see the happiest dogs in America so far. Their masters are grinning too. Don’t pick up any poo. The Pacific will be fine. The waves look mean. Only 1.5 metres but completely unpredictable. Sometimes they break like this, sometimes like this, and never in the same place. In between, rip currents everywhere, many drowned here. After my first cigarette, I exhale a few times in amazement. What, smoke comes out that long? Nope. It’s just so cold that my breath condenses. On land, I’m delighted with my long-sleeved neoprene. Hemingway says: “The coldest winter I ever experienced was the summer in San Francisco.”

At lunchtime, we finish off the remains of yesterday’s unsuccessful cooking escapade. Scott likes it. Shame! What will he say when I find another golden cooking spoon? I haven’t lost anything on the trip so far. I simply left small gifts for each host. Yes, this phrase is in praise of my forgetfulness. Today I search for my wallet for almost a whole hour before I find it in Scott’s car when I leave for kitesurfing in the early afternoon.

We drive to Wadell Beach, an hour south of San Francisco. A very funny place: the fog hangs low all along the coast, only Wadell Beach is 2 miles wide with bright sun and wind. Not much, but just enough to never have to be afraid. I finally get a full 2 hours of kitesurfing in. The waves today are supposedly small for the Wadell wave spot. Nevertheless, they still break me a few times. No matter. The kite always pulls me out. Unfortunately, the 25 km/h wind is not enough to give me a real edge, so I have to run up the beach a few times. But at least I learn to make the most of the little wind. Meanwhile, Scott plays impressively with a directional without straps in the waves. I’m one of the last to leave the water before the Pacific sunset and head past dead sea lions with their heads bitten off towards the car. Pack up and head home.

There’s still a lot to do in the evening. Scott stays at home, I head straight on to the Maritime National Historical Park. The two travellers from Crater Lake had raved about the shanty singing on an old ship in San Francisco. Old sea dogs singing sea dog songs. In front of them, 100 mostly older spectators sit on the Balclutha’s tween deck. The Wandervögel’s story had sounded less like an organised sing-along concert and more like an “everyone-for-everyone sing-along”. Unfortunately, it wasn’t, so it was a little disappointing. I grab a free cider and mocha during the interval, flavouring the latter with illegally imported Scotch. After all, Scotsmen built this ship and I’m quite enthusiastic about history.

Unfortunately, Polk Street is on the way home. Today’s programme: pub marathon. I see. Well, you have to take the local offerings as they come. I end up in a sushi bar. Right next door, I try to talk a pub landlord with Munich relatives out of the sin of serving Franziskaner Hefeweizen. Unfortunately to no avail. I drink Budweiser, the Americans drink Franziskaner. At least we all drink Plörre.

At some point, a Yank next to me shouts “21”! I can’t take it, there’s also Mäxchen/Meiern in Amiland. The local name “Mexicana” leads me to the conclusion that we are the real originators. Fortunately, the two Americans I’m playing with have absolutely no idea what the point of the game is. As the second loser, I get a free Guinnes and a gin and tonic before they leave. I end the evening in the hope that there won’t be any more surfing cries the next morning.