That morning on the over-crowded bridge the fog hung thick and low, a collapsing tent straining under the weight of storms above. Arizona tourists we were, huddled in landmark-emblazoned fleeces in the winter-like summer cold. My body complained loudly after the 8-hour-car-drive that had followed the 14-hour-plane-ride from a place where peanut butter was unheard of and people were protesting a missile defense system. It was our last family vacation before my belongings-laden car struck out for independence in a town down southwest. We stood admiring the ships and the waves until your fingers and lips began to turn blue and we piled back inside to continue up the coast.