On a warm day in late March I was walking alone on the trail along the cliffs, above the sea, my shoes slung over my shoulder, feeling the still moist earth between my toes, sensual and pleasant, enjoying immortal sights, the islands like shadows in the bright early afternoon haze, kelp lying thick and luxurious on the surface, whales making their way north, the rushing surf and afternoon breeze combining hypnotically: rising and falling, pushing and receding, a yearning and a surrender.
A sensation first, and from the corner of my eye I see it: a ship with square sails, coming out of the west, flags flying, long red pennants, a weathered black hull, modest castles fore and aft but not a galleon, narrower, nimble. I know I am imagining it, a colorful ghost, but breathless hold the vision of it, coasting well off shore, continuing east beyond Campus Point as if skirting a phantom headland or reef, before making a slow graceful turn into Goleta Bay."
