I stood mid-span of the Golden Gate Bridge, gazing down at the waves far below. The site was infamous for suicide jumpers who kept the Coast Guard small boat station busy year-round. The majority achieved their goal of death when they hit the water at a force similar to running into a cement wall, or drowned from the severe plunge into the frigid, rough waves sweeping out to sea. Less than two percent survived the fall since the bridge opening in 1938.
A sailboat bucked against the current on it’s way out of the safety of the Bay into the ocean, the bow dipping into the waves and then rising back up and throwing great sprays of water towards the couple in the cockpit. It was just one single boat and not a fleet. It wasn’t a race and the wind was relatively light. Still, it brought back memories of exactly 20 years ago that day.
Vivo O Sonho 