The story of its naming can not be run to earth, but it probably originated in some circumstance connected with the great sea-birds whose ungainly forms may still be seen heavily flapping over the bay, or resting on the island.
ANGEL ISLAND
Angel Island, the Americanization of La Isla de los Ángeles (the isle of the angels), belies its name, since it has been devoted to the quite un-angelic business of quarantine station of San Francisco.
Palou, in speaking of the expedition of 1776, says: “They moved to the island which is in front of the mouth, which they called Nuestra Señora de los Ángeles [Our Lady of the Angels], on which they found good anchorage, and going on land, they found plenty of wood and water.”
A story has found its way into print that the island was named “from a miner who once settled there,” the writer probably mixing it up with the name of Angel’s Camp, in the Sierras. What a desecration for our island, with its romantic name of “Our Lady of the Angels,” piously given to it by the Spaniards in honor of the Virgin!
YERBA BUENA ISLAND
Yerba Buena (the good herb), is the name of a dainty little vine native to the California woods, which has an agreeable aromatic odor, and was much in use among the Spanish as a medicinal herb, and to add a pleasant aroma to their tea. Fremont, who, whatever else may be said of him, had enough poetry in his soul to feel an expansive joy over the plant life of this flowery land, describes it as follows: “A vine with a small white flower, called here la yerba buena, which, from its abundance, gives its name to an island and town in the bay, was to-day very frequent on our road, sometimes running on the ground, or climbing the trees.” It is said that the Hupa Indians were in the habit of weaving the tendrils of this vine in their hair for the sake of the perfume.
Some talk has arisen of late that this poetic and historic name is to be taken away from our island. Commuters, when you pass it on your daily journey, let your minds carry you back to the day when the delicate tendrils of the little vine waved on the island’s steep slopes, and its sweet scent was wafted on the breeze from the Golden Gate, and do not, I pray you, consent to call it Goat!