Angel Island/Could We Get a Boat that's a little less Sinky?

Break from India for a sec. Angel Island is like the Staton Island of San Francisco. My sister Jane and I took the S.S. Gash, a ferry with a five foot long stab wound in the side, on a day trip down to the island -a magical journey into the affluent California sea scape. As the first people on the boat, we got a killer spot next to a window. We avoided the outdoors because my microfiber hiking shirt, above-the-knee cargo shorts, and fanny pack were too flimsy to bear the harsh sea wind. A Note, I was not embarrased in my hiking outfit. On the contrary, I blended in nicely with all the yuppies in their Colombia pullovers, camelpacks, and Smartwool socks. Jane just wore jeans and a sweater; we looked down on her.
There was a sailboat race going on that day and we got the chance to see these magnificent eight-man racing yachts tacking through the wind while the crews raced from one side to the other for counter balance, boats nearly capsizing as our ferry and 3-man crew cruised past.
The Island was pretty typical for and island. We hiked, saw nature, got tired. There was a cool tree that looked like it was bleeding. I think it was magical. Or maybe it is all of nature that is magical. Just kidding, nature sucks. We tried to have a picknick at the summit but all these damn bees kept getting in out business. By the way, although the summit of Angel Island is one of the highest peaks in the area, at 1000 feet it is still about 2oo feet lower than my parents house in Des Moines.
On our descent we saw these goofy twig trees with giant pinecones, that and a hiking path that ran along a cliff. If we were severely intoxicated we could have stumbled to our dooms.
Speaking of which, on our way back to port the captain made a stop in a well-to-do Marin County sea town. There was a seaside bar that the captain presumably went to where these middle age ladies did milf dances (hands in the air, a-rythmic gyrating, awkward spins) in full view of our ferry. Since we were all bored on the boat, waiting for the captain to drink his fill, the lot of us sat and watched, critiqueing, imitating, enjoying.
When we finally got going again the captain drove us within throwing range of Alcatraz (and some smaller sea vessels) then crashed into the dock, more or less, which helped explain where the gash on the side of the ship came from.