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February 7, 2008
A big, floppy doll, pillow-soft, nothing solid about you. You were the only static element of the scene - the paramedics, the CHP, the boat crew stiffly and sternly busying themselves with details, while I watched from from the flybridge of the MLB. In the middle of all that hustle, you looked... serene.

I tremble when I see the bridge.

Sailing under it always meant that I was leaving home... or coming home. Peering over it, I am aware of the edge of a continent, the edge of a tectonic plate. It is a portal. Even, it seems, between worlds.