Medanos Point

Between this tongue of sand and sagging piers across the channel, all things pass that enter Mission Bay, all boats and rafts, dredges, driftwood, clots of shining seaweed, all fishes, shells and crabs, every cube and mound of sea that rushes in and spreads out shallowly between the points of land. Twice each day the new tide carries still another unclaimed freight of creatures, the food of creatures and the seed of them across the clean-swept bottom sand. Every night the tide and wind work, flooding in and scouring out, and this has been going on for centuries.

If Medanos Point had eyes, its low sand dunes would quiver constantly with memories of strange and lovely forms of life, of violent deaths and serene beginning made in mid-channel. And wherever you might thump the sand, it woud squirt a stream of moist sea images, like a saturated bog.