Somewhere in the Stars

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Nick could see the Coit Tower spiraling its way out of the fog, as he leaned on the railing at the epicenter of the Golden Gate Bridge, his eyes blinking then closing, a salty brine massaging his face, finding himself adrift like so many sloops on the sea or barges on a river. As a child he remembered when Papà would take him sailing in the San Francisco Harbor, the city rising in blue-green sea water, flanked by its bridges linking all the Bay Area, everything in motion, ships coming in and fishing boats going out, an occasional Navy boat patrolling, people walking along the shore and matchbox-size cars chasing each other across the bridges. Papà’s face was brown and wrinkled, his hands swollen and chapped from netting fish, contrasted by his jet-black hair, slicked back with pomade, and his light blue eyes that shined with kindness, even when he scolded his son for being a muschitta.

By the time Nick was a teenager, Papà stationed him on the rudder. His father relied on the sea, negotiating the high and low of tides and the tidal forces of nature, saying these things would help Nick navigate life. He trusted his son so much at the helm that he could shut his eyes, feel the warmth of the sun, the smell of a saline sea, something he could never do on his purse seiner searching for the mother lode of sardines. He would recount many tales of his voyages, at an age for Nick when stories could be repeated. One time, after they left the safety of the bay, on a calm and blue sky afternoon, Papà ordered his son to turn the sailboat around, to Nick’s objections on the way back home, and when they first saw the international orange towers of the bridge, the waves began to swell above their heads, the winds howling as they slid into the bay water.

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