Rain slides off Schocken Hill in culverts topped with cracked pavement into Sebastiani’s 40 acres. Amidst rows of vines and stands of mustard Spring grasses bend and smooth a gulley so two lengths of vine can squeeze their whittled tips through the vineyard’s heart. It’s a race and I am 4 and Ginny 3. (Our little home a sentinel on the corner. Mom inside. Dad at work.) Water floods my yellow boots and tickles Ginny’s belly. We track the boats to Lovall and they disappear to where we both know – Ginny a smart dog and this not our first time. We hustle down 4^th past the factory across the tracks and a quick hello to the winery guys. The boats shoot from darkness into the sunlight washing the creek and under the bridge to SF Bay where the winner will be declared.