Have the End Times Arrived for Yerba Buena Island?
What my life was like when I lived on San Francisco’s hidden island
I was eating breakfast at an IHOP in Lawton, Oklahoma, when I seriously considered living on Yerba Buena Island for the first time. Fresh out of journalism school in Missouri, I had just packed my truck with all my earthly possessions and set my sights on San Francisco. Even though I already had a writing job lined up, I didn’t know anybody in the state of California. In my mind, that wasn’t a problem. I did, however, need a place to live — immediately.
That’s exactly what I got when a fateful phone call drew me away from my Swedish crepes. My landlady-to-be was on the other end, following up on my perfectly calm, in-no-way-frantic email with a subject line that read something like, “NEW COLLEGE GRADUATE WHO LANDED DREAM JOB VERY INTERESTED IN YOUR ROOM FOR RENT!!!” She asked a list of basic questions, quizzed me about my astrological sign (Taurus) and voiced her approval before my food got cold.
More than 1,500 miles of westward motion later, I arrived at the Treasure Island exit, made a right-hand turn and wound my way toward the top of Yerba Buena. This isn’t Google Street View — this is the real deal. Before I knew it, I had come to the doorstep of my new home among the Eucalyptus trees. Much like the other buildings on Yerba Buena Road, the place was a modest two-story duplex built in the postwar years. Looking down my street, I could check off about half of the standard SF must-see landmarks and mainstays, including Alcatraz, the Golden Gate Bridge, the Ferry Building, Coit Tower and, yes, even Karl.
It didn’t take long to get used to my life atop Yerba Buena. Sometimes after work, I would walk down to Treasure Island, our manmade counterpart, and grab a sandwich at the Island Cove Market. Traces of both islands’ past were visible everywhere, especially in the old government structures that had been scattered across the landscape like pieces in a long-forgotten board game. When it was warm, I’d sit out on the massive water reservoir tanks built into Yerba Buena’s hillsides and watch the ships cut across the bay, the sun sinking beneath the horizon. Believe it or not, the sunsets out there never did require a filter.
My route would sometimes bring me to Clipper Cove, our own little beach with an excellent view of the Bay Bridge’s newest stretch, which would glow into the early morning hours. Many a memorable night had unfolded down there — the strangest of which included a circle of sailboats lashed together, a makeshift aquatic trampoline and a man in a pirate outfit offering me a swig from a gin-filled watermelon (I obliged). But most evenings, it was still, and the only sounds came from rustling leaves and cars rushing across the bridge in a hurry to get to somewhere else.
Beyond the beaches, water tanks, sunsets and views that realtors always seem to describe as epic, I’d wander over to the park with no name. It was a simple setup with a single charcoal grill, a metal slide, a wooden picnic table and two concrete benches with flaking yellow paint. Everything was a little tired except for the trees — giants with thick trunks and leaves shaped like feathers —which have watched over the bay for more than a century. It’s here that I sat on that bench and felt at home in this strange, often unpredictable new place. It was a constant—a solid ground and a safe haven. I’d make calls to my family in Michigan and my friends back home, describing the park, the island and my life. To a kid from the Midwest, it all seemed so surreal — yet it all made sense.
The month after my lease ended, the final residents were forced to leave their homes on Yerba Buena Island. Plans called for new high-dollar condos, and the island as we knew it would be changed forever. Even though I had spent only a summer out there, my thoughts sometimes wandered back to those first days in San Francisco and those nights in the park, when I’d look up at the sky and wonder what’s next.
Return to Yerba Buena
Over the winter, curiosity (or maybe nostalgia) got the best of me, and I went back. I got off at the Treasure Island exit and drove up Macalla Road toward where my old house once stood. As I approached the park, I was greeted by barricades and a security guard tasked with patrolling the area. I told him about the place where I used to live, and he told me I was free to take some photos. That’s what I did — and this is what I saw.
It’s easy to get upset by the stumps, chips and mangled metal that replaced my favorite place in all of San Francisco. Some days I am. But then I think back to those mighty, mysterious trees, that island and everything the past couple of centuries have thrown their way. This isn’t the end of Yerba Buena Island; it’s just another chapter in the storied history of that big, beautiful mass of rock in the middle of the San Francisco Bay. Long live Yerba Buena.
