What do you think of when you hear the word travel? Jetting off to a foreign country or some exotic tropical location? Most people would answer that way. But not me. When I think of travel I immediately picture myself driving down the road with the windows open, the breeze flowing through my hair, the radio blasting.
One of the postcards shows an assortment of boats and two wooden towers with long slides attached. These were electric hoists or cranes that lifted fish from the holds of the boats and deposited them on spillways where they were loaded onto trucks to be taken to market. Yes, proof that Morro Bay really was a “quaint little fishing village.”