bribed
and
bullied,
procured
lavish
gold
and
silver
mines,
who
paid
illiterate
immigrants
a
pittance,
gathered
great
fortune
and
yet
wore
tattered
clothes.
On
to
massive
Morro
Rock,
stark,
rising
from
gentle
surf,
a
miniature
Gibraltar,
just
as
proud,
solitary
icon
around
which
schools
of
fish
must
navigate.
With
a
turn
of
the
screw
and
beat
of
indigenous
drum,
I
arrive
at
Avila
Beach,
idyllic,
isolated
place
where
kids
cavort
in
the
sand
behind
the
fully
booked
resort.
A
rickety
little
pier
there
accommodates
fishermen
whose
daily
catches
get
unloaded.
Rickety
pier
held
up
by
poles
mostly
skewed,
absorbing
the
brunt
of
relentless
tides,
doomed
to
collapse
in
the
event
of
a
major
quake.
Fishing
boats’
masts
like
skeletons,
those
boats
peppering
the
private
bay.
31