At Fault

I have only myself to blame for the wrong turn on my way to Oregon, making a long day of slow travel even longer. I was cocky with my dead reckoning,  not knowing that I had ridden the motorcycle across the San Andreas Fault, placing me on a broken finger of land pointing to the Gulf of Alaska. My two wheels were then rolling over the Pacific Plate, apart from the mainland’s North American Plate, separated by the water-filled fissure they call Tomales Bay.

Upon discovering the land’s end, I had to make the u-turn to backtrack my way home bound.

On this reroute, I stopped at the bay’s end,  the place near where I now know the continental plates merge. With the breezes, the marsh grass bends and water ripples, but the land presented no obvious signs of the pending quake. It’s here where the fishing boat “Point Reyes” rests in peace.

I stopped, walked across the marsh, set my helmet upon an old piling. Before the wreck. I paid my respects to the old fishermen whose nets hauled in the Point Reyes’ last  salmon, sole or tuna. I cannot now know which. I wondered what errors of theirs brought her to this end.


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