PLAYLAND

For decades "Playland at the Beach" was a major feature attached to the Pacific (west) edge of San Francisco's Golden Gate Park.  Locals called it "The Concessions."  I grew up during its midlife -- its hey day.  Playland began its gentle drift into oblivion, a descent triggered by the Great Depression, the movie industry, and the automobile.  At 17 cents a gallon, driving south on the Peninsula, or north through Marin County, or east to Moraga had more allure than the chill winds of the sea.  I recall that, in school, our latitudes were designated “the prevailing westerlies.”  Since our teacher did not define “prevailing” for us, I thought it meant “incessant.”  I was right, and they were always cold.

The two great bridges made Playland's corny carnie even duller. As competition increased,  Playland's management quit bothering to keep the grounds clean enough. However, a concession manager lived next door to us and peeled off free passes like confetti.  So I went with friends fairly often across the Park to the pike.  Free was free.

The tickets didn't pay for hot dogs, cotton candy, chocolate bars, and other stuff that teenagers gobble up, of course.  Perhaps my neighbor's generosity was not without wisdom.  And high school kids have friends.

One time, Alex, his girl friend, her friend, and I decided to roller skate from Market and Powell Streets past North Beach, west by Fisherman's Wharf, to Sutro Heights, on  to the Seal Rocks, and  to Playland for food.  It wasn't as daunting as it may sound, as San Francisco isn't very big.  But Alex's mother did say, "You're nuts." Alex's mother was a savvy woman.

We checked our skates, shoes, and wore comfortable clothing.  We were nuts, but not totally stupid.

                

As we left Alex's for a downtown trolley, his mother said again, "You're nuts."  My mother would have said the same, if we'd left from my house.  The girls' mothers, too.

One of the few flat places in San Francisco is the cable car turn table at Market and Powell where we began our little excursion.  No wonder the city's street cars go through tunnels.  We were about to get plenty of exercise.

Chinatown

The start was uneventful.  We worked through China Town, Little Italy, Girardelli Square, and, after a malt shop pause on Clement Street, we reached Sutro Heights promontory, the start of a slalom decent past the Seal Rocks and San Francisco's famous Cliff House.

Cliff House with Seal Rocks

We had agreed to pause at "The Rocks" and watch the surf there smash upward several stories, slopping sea water into the natural basins that, in turn, drained into the five swimming pools inside the Baths.  We had agreed to start down the steep grade but pause halfway by the Cliff House.

The slope began gently enough.  Alex and Shirley coasted very slowly; but my partner seemed unable to check her speed. All I could do was catch up.

We shot past the Cliff House entrance as people standing there gaped.  I concentrated on keeping my partner upright. At least there was a long, level pedestrian pavement at the base of the curve, a half mile parallel to the beach.  We could probably coast to Playland.

I yelled through the whistling wind.  She nodded and smiled.  Our survival appeared hopeful.  Well, except for the broad grating at the base.  We'd have to clear it.

Again, my partner nodded.  Her fingers squeezed my arm HARD. “JUMP!” I yelled.  Her grip hurt. We left the pavement together. Amazingly, we came down on the skates with a modicum of grace, and coasted on...into a sand drift.

How I got my feet out in front I don't know.  They just  were.  Still squeezing the blood out of my arm, most of her was almost level, like a racing dive.  I grabbed at her  jacket.  And it held.  It held, and as we slowed, she began to straighten up.  At last we stood facing each other, and she began to laugh.

“Do it again?” she giggled.

“Not until Sutro's is levelled,” I responded.

Alec's girl friend checked us both over.  “Mom told us we were nuts,” he said.

My partner said, “We're not telling your mother... nobody.  I may never marry.  I might be tempted to tell my grandchildren.  If I don't have any, they won't know.”

Actually, I may have to do that downhill run again.  The Sutro Baths are gone.