Oyster Point sits on the hip of South San Francisco’s blue-collar neighborhood; a small harbor docking boats that sport a five-month growth of barnacles, complemented by the come-hither scent of motor oil. Candlestick Park is the side yard, highway 101 the wraparound porch. Beyond the harbor’s dubious shelter lies San Francisco bay and past that, views of the Port of Oakland and her giant loading cranes, perched like storks fashioned from an erector set. The boats have names that sound like they were thought up by some horny old salt during an acid flashback or drunken rail or quite possibly experiencing an acid flashback during a drunken rail: Groovederci, Liquid Medication, Nauti-Gal.
Full-time living on a craft tied up at Oyster Point Harbor is against the rules. Taking refuge on the boat while the ruckus over that tiny incident involving the Jeep and accordion player with “squeeze me” tattooed on her thigh dies down is acceptable. Residing on a boat is a whole new kettle of scrod. There are insurance issues, harbor master rules, City of South San Francisco laws to be obeyed. Letting people live on their clapped-out buckets, away from the mainstream, invited trouble. All the live-aboards knew it.
“Wow! Thanks!” Vick beamed while ripping open the boat/house-warming present I brought her. Indian summer is in full-feathered powwow, rendering the afternoon in amber, turquoise, silver. It’s a day boats live for, and even the sludgy sand’s flatulent smell has wafted off to other harbors. She opened the brass telescope and trained it on a low-flying flock of pelicans, watching as they trundled over the water’s even surface. “Arrr,” she growled.
“I knew you’d like it.”
“Arr, it’s farrrrbulous.”
“Can I see it?”
“Nooooo,” she rumbled, the glass now trained on a boat a few docks down. “Tharrrr’s a good view at land’s end.”
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