Short trip to wharf covers long distance

My journey of 1,000 miles begins with a single limo ride to Fisherman’s Wharf.

Sister Shirley called me on Monday to ask whether I could chaperone the eighthgraders on Tuesday. I asked why not invite Brian to go instead, and Sister Shirley replied, “They’re eighthgraders. The chaperone either has to be a nun, or someone like a nun.”

Have I ever mentioned that my mother’s maiden name was Wise? Whenever she gave us advice, she would start with, “A word to the Wise.” About this situation, she continued, “You can disagree with the parish priest. In fact, you’d better. They’re a little too full of themselves. But you better do exactly what a nun tells you.” So, I took Tuesday afternoon off.

As field trips go, this was an easy one. The top sellers of candy in the fundraiser were invited to lunch at InNOut Burger in Fisherman’s Wharf, and we drove down in a limo.

The first place I ever visited in San Francisco was the wharf, and to a tourist it feels like magic: the smell of crabs, the cool fog blowing in over Alcatraz, the foghorn moaning, Ghirardelli’s chocolate, the tall spire of Coit Tower gleaming in the background. In a city where even the garbage is complicated, it’s easy to forget its charm. But the Wharf has not changed. (It still sells snow globes filled with cable cars.)

With eighthgraders in tow, there’s even more of a sense of wonder. Through their eyes I saw what little miracles there are in the holiday tree being put up and the sea lions and the Maxfield Parrish clouds. Also part of that miracle there were these young people whom I had known since they sang at the Nativity scene in the first grade — Little Jelly was now Anjelica; RJ, who kicked his soccer cleats off into the air instead of the ball every single game, was now Roberto. Voices were cracking, little whispers of hair appearing over their lips, but I was lucky enough to still be Coach Kevin. Like San Francisco, I was one of those things that doesn’t change, as everything changes around them.

That week, Aidan and I had his first class for confirmation (think of it as bar mitzvahlite). As usual, Sister Lil had more advice for the parents than she did for the teenagers. She said that this sacrament meant that the relationship between the parent and the offspring was changing, most especially in how the two generations spoke to each other.

“Your young men and women will stop asking you questions that you can answer and will start asking you questions that no one can answer,” she said. “The second thing is the way that they listen. It will appear that they will not hear a word you say, no matter whether you repeat it three times or 30 times. Then one day, you will learn they’ve been sitting in the back seat, the entire trip, listening.”

Longtime readers of this column know that my oldest son, Zane, went 1,000 miles away over the mountains and across the prairies on a pilgrimage to find himself. A candle continues to burn in the window to show him the way back to the bedlam blue bungalow in the outer, outer, outer, outer Excelsior. But there are a lot of nights

I wonder what it was that I did not say, whether I gave him enough wisdom. Should I have said it 30 times? Thirty times 30?

My husband Brian mails Zane a letter every week. We sit around the table on Sunday morning, and we each write a note, and Brian puts a copy of the column in the envelope, to let Zane know that everything changes around him, but my dad jokes remain the same.

Zane rarely comments about his clipping from the Voice of the West. Occasionally, another boy in the group will say, “Nice column, Mr. Kevin!” so I know someone out there is getting little doses of my wisdom.

But we came home that night of Sister Lil’s class, and there was a letter from Montana:

There are a lot of nights I wonder what it was that I did not say, whether I gave him enough wisdom.

“I know what I have to do now. I need to learn to do the right things, even when no one’s looking. I hope to one day walk through the door to our house with my bags and say, ‘Dad, we all go on journeys, but some take longer than others to find their way back home.’ Love, Zane.”