I turned to breathe the great fresh air of harbors, exulting my good luck - I pictured myself with grave face pointed seaward through the final Gate of Golden America never to return. I saw shrouds of gray sea dripping from my prow. I never dwelt on the dark farcial furious real life of this roaring working world.
Jack Kerouac
From the short story "slobs of the kitchen sink" in the book, "Lonesome Traveler"