Cursing, the tugboat captain let out a string of degrading opinions of the kind of master Father was—and Father returned the compliment. My father holds a license as pilot of San Francisco harbor so he didn’t even have to hire a pilot or a tugboat to get inside the Heads. The tugboat steamed alongside us at half-speed, ready to throw us a hawser if the wind died and we were forced to be towed in, but Father entered the Golden Gate, sailed past Mile Rock Light House, dipped the flag in salute to the lighthouse keeper, and came to safe anchorage off Alcatraz Island. He let go the hooks and waved a superior good-bye to the indignant tugboat captain.
There was a brisk breeze blowing over the Bay and hardly a cloud overhead. To the eastward rolled the hills of Berkeley.
“Your mother’s over there, Joan. I’m going to ship you off this trip.”
I stared at Father.
“You mean me leave the ship?”
He didn’t look at me as he replied:
“Yes, it’s high time you had a woman’s care of you.” That was the first he told me of his plan to send me ashore to live.
“Are you going to quit the sea too?” I was filled with terror. Not to be on the ship any more—ever? Never to steer a course under the Southern Cross—reef a sail in a storm, never to set a halyard to the rhythm of Swede’s chantey?
“No. I’m goin’ to stay on this ship as long as she floats. I’ll stand by her until she goes down under me.” He looked away from the hills out towards the sea. Little did Father realize when he spoke those words that they would come true!
I was going to live on shore with my mother and brothers and sister. I didn’t even remember what my mother looked like. She was only a beautiful symbol to me—something far off and not quite real that had been painted for me in words from my father—and not someone real that I could live with. But now I must. Father would make me. It seemed too terrible to endure.