It’s November, somewhere in San Francisco. At 6 a.m. the sun hasn’t even begun to rise, but the foghorns are sounding their lonely call through the soupy mist, alerting vessels to the presence of a rough, ragged and craggy piece of the San Francisco coastline as they come into the bay.
Maybe there are a few captains listening in their boats far away, at the darkened helms of their vessels paying close attention to their surroundings at sea. But on land there are fewer still who are even awake, and none listening to this quiet concert with more intent and purpose than Mark Adams. Mark starts his day alone, standing in the cold and dark predawn fog where the only faint light is a weak amber cast from the continuously humming sodium street lights in a parking lot. There he prepares himself, listening to the waves funnel and turn, reveling in this nearly daily ritual, preparing for what is to come.