Directly opposite, the white buildings of Point Bonita stand out
against the green of the hills; strongly fortified, and ready at all
times to defend the entrance to San Francisco Bay against warlike
intruders.

Two hardy fishermen have ventured out at low tide to a large rock and
are casting their lines into the boiling waters for rock-cod or
porgies, while the Italian fishing boats, with their queer striped
sails, form a striking contrast to the massive steamboats, with smoke
trailing from their twin funnels, that are outward bound for China or
Japan.

Farther on, where the rocks descend to the sea level, we roam the
beach and gather sea shells, starfish, and sea urchins; and by a
shallow pool we stop to watch the scarlet fringes of the sea anemones,
waving back and forth with the action of the tide. Barnacles cover the
top of every rock that the tide reaches, and the long, blackish,
snakelike seaweed is strewn along the beach.

We watch the tide come creeping in, each succeeding wave running a
little farther up the beach and driving us back with relentless energy
from its rightful possessions.

The sun sinks down in golden splendor behind the ocean's rim, leaving
a track of molten gold that tips as with a halo the edges of the
dancing waves. We turn our faces homeward, with a last, lingering look
at the majestic expanse of blue rolling waters, and ever in our ears
sounds the ceaseless moaning of the ocean.