We're making our way north at 2,000 feet, just west of the Bayshore Freeway, when John points animatedly ahead. I look, but I'm not sure exactly what he's trying to point out to me. He pulls out his pad of paper and scribbles three letters. "SQL!" he writes. Ah. Right. We're approaching San Carlos, the airport John called home until last year. "Would you like a picture?" I ask. He nods, and I put the plane in a slight slip to make it easier for him to get a clear view beyond the wing. In like fashion we pass over San Francisco International -right over midfield, with a Boeing 777 taking off underneath us, and over downtown San Francisco. The fog is lacing its way through the Golden Gate Bridge to the west, and the skies beyond Mount Diablo to the east are thunderstorm black, but the Bay Bridge and Oakland are still shining in the sunlight.
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