Just as we had composed ourselves for the inevitable, a brisk waving of red flags was seen in the Valley, followed by the moving of the cavalcade in front; and, much to our satisfaction, we soon left our pessimistic informer far in the rear.
Fishing Boats.
On the most southerly point of Marin a narrow rocky neck of land extends some distance into the Ocean. At the base are jagged rocks over which the sea surges ceaselessly, cutting arches and miniature caves in the fissures of the cliffs. From this rocky headland, which formerly was a menace and terror to navigators, now streams a steady light, and the point erstwhile spelling destruction now proves a blessing to vessels which are guided safely into port by the aid of its welcome light. This is Point Bonita and the Bonita Light, which, as we approached, stood out clear in the afternoon sun.
The Derrick Wharf.
Stopping at the lighthouse keeper's dwelling, we proceeded on foot to the Point, accompanied by the keeper. Pausing in the narrow pathway, he drew our attention to a small derrick-wharf for the tender, at the base of the steep cliff on which we stood. This he explained was where the boat, which touches here three times a week, lands provisions, oil, and fuel.
"But, how," I asked in astonishment as I gazed down the dizzy depth, "do you get them up here?"