From Fort Scott west to Fort Miley and south to Fort Funston, a distance
of something over eight miles, there is a line of cliffs and beach that
is the ocean front of San Francisco. Driving up from the
eucalyptus-lined avenues of the Presidio along a road that reveals
perspectives of bay and hills, you come out upon the cliffs that form
the southern post of the Golden Gate and extend above the eastern and
southern shore of the outer harbor, with yellow beaches at their feet
and with homes, gardens and parks set along their edge.
From these cliffs is spread a vista of coast line and ocean with a sweep
that extends as far north as Point Arena and as far west as the Farallon
Islands, rugged points of rock reaching out of the ocean depths
twenty-three miles off shore, and as far south as the azure thrust of
Point Pedro.
Drifting along the cliff highway, which runs back of the fortifications
that defend the port of San Francisco, you drop down past the dirigible
hangar of the United States Army Flying Corps. You rise through Sea
Cliff, a residence section like a hanging garden over the ocean, and
come to Lincoln Park, where the flagstaff that marks the terminus of the
Lincoln Highway, the end of a transcontinental trail, is set.
Following now a detour through city streets, instead of the highway that
will soon traverse the cliffs, to the Cliff House, a resort foremost in
the written and pictured annals of San Francisco, you glimpse three
miles of sandy beach stretching southward to the jutting headlands of
Point Pedro and you drop down to the boulevard that flanks the
Esplanade, which the city is building as part of its playground plan.
Here is San Francisco's Little Coney Island, where the multitude comes
on Sundays by motor car and trolley, with lunch baskets and children, to
frolic or rest on the sands that front the sea.
Gay booths and kiosks skirt the Esplanade, where vendors are kept busy
supplying their wares and where everyone appears as carefree as the
gulls wheeling above the white breakers.
As you continue south along the beach you pass the chalet of the Olympic
Club, whose members sally forth on New Year's Day for their dip in the
surf. Presently you reach the Great Highway, which traverses the dykes
of sand raised by wind and water as barriers against the ocean. Ahead of
you are Sloat Boulevard and the Skyline Boulevard, which, skirting Lake
Merced, stretches south through the shore mountains, its objective Santa
Cruz, on the blue bay of Monterey.
This expanse of three miles of glistening sandy beach is a playground
where the people may watch the ever-shifting panorama of sea and sky and
hills. Seals can be seen sunning themselves on the rocks. Beyond them,
riding the swells, are fishing boats, and still farther out cargo
carriers and passenger liners make for distant points or come seeking
haven in the Port of Adventure--San Francisco.