A TRIP TO THE FARALLONES 



T DAYLIGHT, on a Sunday morning in 

 July, I found myself with one companion 

 standing upon Fisherman's Wharf in San 

 Francisco and waiting for the signal to start 

 upon a trip to the Farallones. The early hour 

 had been chosen on account of the tide, which 

 was then on the ebb, a circumstance of no little importance in 

 undertaking to beat out to sea through the Golden Gate 

 against the fresh head wind which was then blowing. The 

 sun was just flushing the misty sky over the Berkeley hills 

 across the bay, a delicious crispness was in the air, and the 

 staunch craft of the Greek fishermen were bobbing about at 

 their moorings beside us. One or two of these were already 

 starting off and spreading their graceful lateen sails to the morn- 

 ing breeze. A group of bronzed fishermen, picturesque in their 

 blue shirts, rubber boots, and brightly colored sashes, were 

 diligently at work making ready some of the boats for the day's 

 labor, washing seines, hauling them in to dry, and cleaning off 

 the decks. 



The captain and two hands, composing the crew of our 

 little boat, were late in arriving, but presently appeared on the 

 wharf with supplies for the trip. Like most of the fishermen, 

 our men were Greeks, understanding but little English and 



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