It is that time of year

...when the fog shoots into the mouth of the San Francisco bay on a rail.   From the bay bridge, a rough column of mostly-eaten lemon cotton candy runs in a straight line inwards, parallel to your path of travel and scarcely higher in elevation.  Mount Tam, the spires of the golden gate, and even the tip of Angel island protrude through it.   Meanwhile, behind you, the outer parts of the city seem threatened by a tsunami of hazy white.  Add tricolor sunset.  Wait 24 hours.  Repeat.