Skypilot date: 072902, 1028 hours. Plot in our course in the Beamer Box. Departing Petaluma, south on 101 passing a roundhouse with windmills made out of fifty-five gallon drums cut in half twirling absently on the roof of Sausalito houseboat tied up to the pier permanently moored but getting boat prices for the rental on dry land, tide's out.
Flashing through the Golden Gate espying rivets pounded in place by a kneeling steelworker praying for the flash of an ankle turned his way on a lithe toureesta ankling past his gleaming eyeball.
Toll booth. Three dollars. You pays to get in but it's free going out. Open up that golden gate, San Francisco, we are here at the Presidio with its little landing strip where Capn Skyp landed one time flying in under the Golden Gate Bridge to get in all kinda trouble, except flew out of there so fast they never got my number steam rising out of the rocket intakes; but when we head out the steam is left behind. Ha ha, joke's on us: It was the man hole emitting the steam straight through the city, on Lombard Street causing misty memory of Rocketship number one, cruising through San Francisco hit every light green as writ in the ancient log.
Van Ness Street, heading south, Tommy's Joynt, home of the greatest sandwiches in the Bay welcoming us to San Francisco on a beautiful Monday morning the sidewalks packed with people and cars on the streets in every direction as commuteres and workers move to their jobs hoping to arrive before Monday is over so they can jump on the back of the first handy cow and moo their ways back home from corner of Van Ness and Market Street with the old electric trolleys, gotta watch our antenna doesn't hit the juice.
Now the freeway, 101, heading south. Complete slowdown on the freeway, cars lined up as far as the eye can see, get to know the person in the car next to you intimately. Without even talking. Crawling traffic due to a wild painted, crazy welded low riding car that had a flat tire in the fast lane, pulled over to the far left but the traffic is all balled up, not taking any chances; and, siren squawling, here comes a cop along the left left lane and stops behind the crazy car; cop gets out, stops all three lanes of traffic to allow the flat tired guy to drive all the way across the freeway to the far right side, finally clearing the freeway and we speed up to jam hard right at the Poplar off ramp, this is it, we get off here and home in for a landing on the rocket pad at BabyStuff central. Shut here down, boys.
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