All nine of the Azorean Islands have the same essential look - white stone houses adorn deep-green grassy fields criss-crossed by meandering walls of black volcanic rock. Yet the people, the towns, and the diverse weather left me with distinctive impressions of each island.

That said, I have little doubt that another visit would change everything.

I didn't step foot on Santa Maria Island in the east or Graciosa in the central group of five islands. Nor did I visit Flores Island or tiny Corvo in the west. I wish I had, but there simply wasn't time.

I was fortunate that my contacts for finding relatives of West Marin's Azorean immigrants were on four of the five islands in the tightly clustered central group - Terceira, Faial, Pico, and S‹o Jorge.

My first stop was supposed to have been S‹o Miguel Island, but fog rerouted my flight to an airport at a US Air Force base in Lajes on Terceira Island. My choices were to stay on Terceira or gamble on a flight back to S‹o Miguel. If Ponta Delgada proved still too foggy, I'd have to retreat back to Lisbon on the mainland.

I stayed. My experience on Terceira - Portuguese for third since it was the third island discovered in the 15th Century - was limited to the island's two biggest cities, Angra do Heroismo and Praia da Vit—ria. I have trouble calling either a city. Angra has fewer people in it than Petaluma while Praia is really a large village.

Both towns have storied pasts. Angra do Heroismo, Portuguese for Bay of Heroism, is on the United Nations' World Heritage List because of its well-preserved palaces, churches, and castles. It was home to the first major commercial port in the Azores, was the first city to receive a charter, and in 1980, was ravaged by a severe earthquake.

Back in the 1580s, battles against Spanish occupation mostly trashed Angra. The city staved off a series of attacks - one by West Marin's legendary pirate, Sir Francis Drake, who attacked Angra in 1589, some 10 years after he careened the Golden Hinde at Point Reyes.

Angra and Praia de Vit—ria, which means Beach of Victory, are celebrated for continually resisting Spanish control, and for serving as bases for a Liberal revolt against Absolutists during a civil war in the 1820s and 30s.

These days, both cities lure hordes of tourists, especially during the bullfighting season, which, sadly, I missed by a scant six days. Aside from Ponta Degada, Angra is the Azores' most cosmopolitan city. Stylish young people pack bullfight bars and after-hours dance clubs. I'm told the city suffers from a bit of a heroin problem.

Rain pelted Terceira during my weekend there and worsened on Faial, my next stop. I don't hesitate to identify the flight between the two as the spookiest 45 minutes of my life. Rain ratta-tat-tatted off our tiny airplane as fierce winds pitched it this way and that. Strangely, I seemed to be the only passenger aware that we were about to nosedive onto Faial's rocky shoreline.

Thankfully, I'm here to say I was wrong, but the rain still muddled my stay on Faial. I had hoped to visit the Caldeira, a volcano-created crater lake at the peak of the island, but foul weather closed the route to it.

Through the fog and rain, though, I could see a theme developing: whenever things started to look bleak, something wonderful happened. Time and time again during my visit, an important contact proved elusive. Without fail, though, someone else - perhaps even more interesting - would appear.

That theme became clear my first day in Horta, when walking around the yacht harbor, I saw a complete rainbow arching perfectly over the bay and harbor. I spun off a dozen frames of color slide film and found it odd that nobody else seemed to notice the spectacle. Later, I was told that in the Azores, it's common to see three complete rainbows, stacked as if trying to out-wow each other.

Faial, for me, was the international connection in the Azores. The harbor in Horta, the islands' third largest city and seat of the Azores parliament, attracts sailors from around the world.

I watched three young yachtsmen from Ireland paint an Irish flag on the dock. Tradition requires foreign sailors to paint an identifying emblem on the dock before shoving off. As the lore goes, those who don't leave their mark in Horta meet with certain nastiness at sea. Such were the stories I heard as I sat in Pete's CafŽ Sport, sipping wine with three Brits, two Frenchmen, and a Scot while listening to some stories that made me yearn to be a sailor. Others just made me seasick.

The ferry ride from Faial to Pico lasted less than an hour. The channel between the two closest islands is famous as a playground for the dolphins who reportedly treat ferry passengers to late-afternoon shows. Traveling before noon, I caught a glimpse of one dolphin but was too slow with my Nikon.

Pico Island, with its 7,714-foot regal mountain still topped with snow in mid-April, was the one island characterized by beautiful weather. Since I spent most of my two-day stay on the north shore, I was given a southside view of long, tall S‹o Jorge Island. (In clear weather, nifty views of all the centrally grouped islands can be had from high peaks.)

Thanks to my guide Jo‹o Pimentel, a thoroughly likeable cousin of Inverness Park contractor Jim Lino, I saw more of Pico than I had of either Terceira or Faial. I'm exaggerating only slightly when I say virtually all men, women, and children on Pico grow their own grapes and make their own wine. Jo‹o and I managed to become friends, even though he was shy about using his schoolroom English, and my Portuguese was just a set of puzzled facial expressions.

After saying goodbye to him and his family, who let me stay in a spare room for two nights, I boarded a plane for S‹o Jorge (Sawng ZHORJ, phonetically. In English, of course, St. George). There I intended to seek relatives of West Marin's Nunes, Tacherra, Teixeira, and DeSouza families. Fortunately, everybody knows everybody on S‹o Jorge, an island of roughly 5,000 people, and my targets were easy to find.

From what I saw, S‹o Jorge was the least modern island of the five I visited. I frequently saw young boys riding mules to town from their families' small grazing plots, metal milk containers dangling down their mules' flanks.

On S‹o Jorge, 72-year-old Jo‹o Fontes, a distant relative through marriage and blood of Light typesetter Cat Cowles, grumbled that the government shuts off his electricity every day from 2 to 6:30 p.m. and again from midnight to 7 a.m.

While on the island, I was privileged to take part in the centuries-old Festa do Divino Espirito Santo (Holy Ghost Festival), during which villagers thank the Holy Spirit for good fortune and otherwise enjoy each other's company. As part of the festival, they dine on sopas (a tasty beef soup flavored with mint) and plenty of local wine.

After missing a 6:45 a.m. flight to Lisbon, I was unexpectedly free to spend an afternoon in Ponta Delgada, the Azorean capital and biggest city, on S‹o Miguel. The island of S‹o Miguel is home to about 150,000 people, which is more than half the Azorean population of roughly 240,000 - a total almost exactly the same as Marin County's.

As it happened, I was in Ponta Delgada on April 25, the 23rd anniversary of Portugal's bloodless revolution that ended the dictatorships of Ant—nio de Oliveira Salazar and his successor, Marcelo Caetano. The missed flight lead to another rainbow - a fine day of music, dancing, and heartfelt speeches I couldn't understand.

Later that evening, as I sat on the plane - en route to Lisbon, then London, then Dublin - I contemplated how the revelry in Ponta Delgada provided a fitting end to the striking scenery, the historic grace, and the personal charm that filled my two weeks in the Azores.