The Blue Angles - Fleet Week SF

Flying through the Golden Gate

October in San Francisco means clear skies and warm days. We generally get ripped off during the real summer months of June through August. This summer seemed even worse than most. I’m not sure I saw the sun more than a few hours a day – if at all – in August. But then came October, and with it the Blue Angles.

There is no more spectacular place to watch those aeronautical stuntmen than over the San Francisco Bay and in and out of the surrounding city and hills. When it is as hot and clear as it was this past weekend, all the better.

The last, and only time I ever saw the Blue Angles up-close was about thirty years ago. At the time, the Alameda Naval Air Station was still up and running, and that’s where the boys parked those beautiful blue and gold jets. I was lucky enough to be in the tower one year when they cleared the F/A 18’s for take-off, and watched in awe as they launched into action over the San Francisco Bay and skyline. Even luckier, I went to the show with Navy friends who got me onto the restricted area where they coordinate the show.

I haven’t always been in the Bay Area for Fleet Week and the years that I was, just never got around to making the trip over across the bay. Who honestly wants to deal with a million people cramming into the city to view the air spectacle? I’ve tried to watch it from the East Bay, where it is possible to see the tiny specs performing maneuvers. But it lacks the thrill of having your body rumbled from the vibrations, and your heart skip a beat when the ear-shattering sound of a plane sneaks up from behind you. 

Patriot Jet Team

Of the three days the Angles were to perform, Sunday was to be the hottest. I made my plan, packed water and camera, and set off on BART for the short journey under the bay. I got onto a fairly empty train that picked up a few more people until we arrived at the transfer station. From there on in, it was sardine travel. Rather hellish, hot, with nowhere to get a secure grip. But if those families with their little ones could survive the short trip, so could I.  

Popping out from the underground station on to Market Street turned out to be quite a surprise. It was hot. Well, San Francisco hot, but perfect for me. I walked down to the Ferry Building that sits on the bay, stopped in to buy a cup of coffee, and set off down The Embarcadero, on my way towards Fisherman’s Warf. It’s a bit of a walk, but I was early for the Blue Angles show and also wanted to scope out possible viewing areas. Normally, I would have taken one of the classic electric cars that San Francisco has purchased form around the world, refurbished, and put into use, but not today.

Team Oracle 

As I strolled along the wide boulevard, I could see an earlier act plying its trade above the City. A red biplane plane flew straight up, stalled, then spiraled down before the pilot kicked the plane back into an ascent. Young and old alike stopped to gaze up at the death-defying acts circling above our heads.

Past all the Piers that now serve as a variety of business besides the shipping trades, I meandered on until I got to the old part of Fisherman’s Warf; the part that I remember as a child. I noticed that the crowds had increased. If I walked much further, I’d end up at Marina Green where it would be the most crowded.

I ducked down a few alleyways I had never been on before, and eventually found myself on a well, reconstructed pier, with a restaurant on one side. Surely, I must be in an off-limits zone, but I saw no sign, and no one stopped me. I rounded the corner and found myself at the back of the restaurant and smack-dab on the bay itself. There was even a bit of shade which, at that point, I desperately needed.

United 777

A few others were there. One local family told me they had known exactly where to go and had mapped it out in advance. The other folks I talked to had, like me, stumbled upon this primo venue.

I got cool in the shade, pulled out the camera with the long-ish lens, drank a bottle of water, and got ready.

First up came the Patriots Jet Team, a civilian-owned, aerobatic jet team, in their shiny black jets and colorful exhaust trails.  

Then it was time for Team Oracle’s red biplane to loop up and down and mesmerize the crowd.  

If anyone had told me that I would enjoy the sight of a massive Triple-7 over the bay, I would have laughed. And I would have been wrong. There was something quite special about United’s Boeing 777, which seemed to glide across the bay and perform a delicate dance in the sky. I swear I couldn’t even hear it, which seems odd. Perhaps because it was in sharp contrast to the Patriots Jets.

Next up came Fat Albert, the Blue Angles C-130 transport plane, and everyone knew the Big Show was about to begin.

First you hear them, then you see them; Blue Angles speeding low across the bay and shooting up into the sky. Just as quickly they disappear out of sight. You search the skies when suddenly one streaks across the bay, barely above the waterline. And just when you think you have an idea of their next move and where to point the camera, they trick you again. You’re left laughing and jumping up and down with the sheer excitement and thrill of it all.  

For about forty minutes, almost everything stops in San Francisco, and all eyes are on the jets. The Blue Angles fly in and out of the city, not just above they bay, and I would love to be up on the rooftop of a tall building when the sweep through. Maybe next year.

It had been a fantastic day and I didn’t even mind the sardine-travel home. Everyone was smiling and happy. We need more days like this!

SFPD keeping us all safe

America's Cup Final

Living in the San Francisco Bay Area, of course I was aware that the America’s Cup was taking place in town. But that was about it. I’ve always loved anything associated with the ocean and spent years fantasizing about traveling around the world on a boat.  But that lifestyle was not something that was ever in the budget. Also, I have always felt that yacht racing was a bit of a snooty sport and only for the really rich. Nevertheless, none of those anti-yachting sentiments mattered when I heard that Team America had come back from an 8 to 1 deficit to tie Team New Zealand, and it was down to a final race.

This afternoon, soon before the race started, I drove over to a lookout area in the Berkeley hills. One can always see the bay, provided that there is no fog, and the day was beautiful. I had no idea if I would actually be able to see the race boats from such a distance, and was quite surprised at their visibility even without my telephoto lens.

Teams USA & New Zealand, Alcatraz, Golden Gate Bridge

A few other people had gathered on the hill to watch the event. One man had downloaded and app that broadcast the tack-by-tack play. Another woman, who obviously knew a lot about the sport, held binoculars up and gave us more detailed updates about what the boats were doing. We could all easily see the difference between the red and black sails, and I mistakenly told everyone that the red one was team USA. (Something in my mind assumed that New Zealand would always be all black.) But since I didn’t really know what the boats were doing other then sailing back and forth, it didn’t much matter to me.

When the man with the Cup app left, another woman, there with her two kids, logged on to twitter and gave us the updates. For about half an hour, our little group watched and commented on the race. What a lovely little outing!

I honestly didn’t care who won. And since Team America seems to be made up of quite a few men who didn’t have American accents, it seemed to matter even less. What I did love was standing in the warm sun, talking to a small group of people I’d never met in my life, and watching a world event on the San Francisco Bay. Simply outstanding!

The new span of the Bay Bridge. Race is off to the right.

 

 

Goodbye Lonely Planet

Almost exactly three years ago, after writing and posting my travel stories for several years, I came across an item on LonelyPlanet.com stating they were looking for travel bloggers. At the time I was in Puerto Vallarta writing a daily column and quickly sent out an email to LP. A few days later, I was one of the new, “Lonely Planet Featured Bloggers”.  What a thrill that was! Even though my first three years of living in Vietnam had been prior to the start of the LP Blogsherpa program, now a much wider audience would have direct access to all those stories and others to come.

An email the other day informed all the Blogsherpa writers that sometime in December the program would be eliminated and our posts will disappear from the pages of LP.com. Now all those lovely tales from writers traveling and living in places far and near will no longer be available with just a click on a Lonely Planet destination page.

My story about Building a Boat in Mui Ne, won’t be found on the Vietnam pages.

 

The one about the Puerto Vallarta Botanical Garden will also disappear.

 

There are the stories from Hoi An.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And Ho Chi Minh City.

 And the one about the Golden Gate Bridge turning 75 this year.

I will miss my LP readers and miss the oportunity to share my stories with such a large audience.

Happy travel to all.

Kate

The Golden Gate at 75

I grew up directly across the bay from the Golden Gate Bridge. On most days I could look out and see its vibrant orange towers spanning the entrance to the bay, yet I had never stepped foot on its hallowed concrete and metal. May 27th will mark the 75th anniversary of that glorious feat of engineering. The other day, not wanting to fight the massive crowds that are sure to be there for the celebration, I decided that it would be a good time to visit.

The weather was un-San Franciscanly hot; I knew that temps would hit close to 80 degrees. It rarely gets that warm in the middle of the summer, let alone in the spring. Accordingly, I set out in my lightest summer clothing.

Getting to San Francisco is a quick trip under the bay on BART, (our subway), but finding the right bus to get from downtown to the bridge was quite a task. I trekked up and down Market Street and then over to the Ferry Building in hopes of finding the correct bus stop. I had found bus route numbers on the internet, but where they stopped remained a mystery to me and everyone else I asked. By that time I found the correct corner, (30 or 40 minutes later), it was hot enough that I was actually getting a bit sweaty; rather unheard of in San Francisco, but very welcome.

The bus ride out to the bridge is not for the fainthearted. Going on Golden Gate Transit was supposedly faster than on the Muni bus lines, but I have my doubts. Yes, it took me to the bridge, but the driver had to take time to explain the bus options to every person, (mostly tourists), who got on. If you want to continue your trip to Sausalito, pay more now, then after you cross the bridge, take the ferry back. Or if you want to wait for Muni, it’s a dollar cheaper. I do applaud his willingness to help people out, but it added a ton of time to the trip. One would think that in San Francisco there should be a quick, downtown-to-Golden Gate shuttle, especially since they encourage you to use public transportation.

And although it took forever for the bus to get to the bridge, and I was wondering why in the heck I had thought this would be a good idea, all bad thoughts were quickly forgotten as soon as I gazed onto that magnificent structure. It truly is breathtaking.


How wonderful! The Golden Gate Bridge on a splendid day! But then I stepped off the bus and swore; it was freezing! It doesn’t matter how many weather reports one checks, it will always be cold on the bridge with that wind blowing in from the ocean. Then again, that meant that there was no cloud cover and I had picture perfect views of the bridge.


Stepping onto the walkway I tried to avoid the bicycles flying by on my left. I shivered and knew I had keep my head down, battle the chill and get to the first tower of the bridge before stopping, in hopes that I would find shelter from the frigid gusts. Wind whipped through my thin cotton shirt and I gave up on trying to wear the hat I had brought. Once at the first bridge tower, I moved into a protected section and again felt the glorious heat of the day.

It really was a magnificent day and I thought about the men who had built this structure when the weather was never this good and the winds were often much stronger. How did they do it? And that was back in 1937!


What really struck me was that the width of this great structure appeared so small when you are actually standing on it. I could have leaned out and touched cars going by; there just isn’t that much space between the walkway and road. And if there’d even been a small break in the traffic, I am sure I could have run across to the other side. And speaking of safety issues, there aren’t any suicide barriers on the bridge. It wouldn’t be difficult to take a swan dive into the waters below.

Although the bridge is only 1.7 miles, this was not the day I would walk the entire length. It had taken too long to get there and although I could practically see my house as I stood on the bridge and looked over to the east bay hills, I knew it would be an arduous return trip. That and a bum knee sealed the deal as I trudged back to try and find a bus stop. Again, there was no clear indication of how to return to the city center so I just followed other tourists and/or flagged down a passing bus. I seriously considered hitch-hiking but just at that point the correct bus pulled up.

From where I am now sitting in my living room, I can almost see the Golden Gate. (If just a few trees were cut down, I could see it.) Now when I look at it I see it in a different, eye-level perspective, and recall what it felt like to walk her mighty span. It took me a few years to get there and I am so glad I finally did it.

Kate