BENEATH TROPIC SEAS 



from now on the thought shifts to maps, and the 

 curved earth as a whole. Nothing matters above 

 half a mile but physical geography. At this point 

 I always — and please God I always shall — look 

 quickly up to see if the sun or possible stars are 

 not larger than they were before. No one who is 

 bored with flying or diving has any business to 

 return to dry land, — he should be made into an 

 angel or some other flying futurist at once, or 

 dropped well underground into a deep grave to 

 remain there forever. 



My regret at having to begin the descent is 

 always poignant. It is mitigated only by the 

 unfolding of beauties perceived as if for the first 

 time, after their synthesis by elevation. I mean 

 no pun when I say that it is nothing short of an 

 unearthly joy at having the colored string I have 

 mentioned resolve itself into a three-fold spectrum, 

 — the warm rich brown of the sun-baked soil, and 

 the deepest of deep ultramarines, united by a 

 narrow ribbon of breathless turquoise surf. Then 

 the mountain wrinkles iron out into mighty cliffs 

 and shadowful ravines, which might hold some- 

 thing of mystery if it were not Haiti; and the 

 glistening slopes spread out into old, old beaches 

 which have lost their turquoise, and whose stony 

 corals and fishes and shells are washed now only 

 by phantom breakers of cloud tossed at them on 

 the waves of air. A glistening patch of white 

 catches and holds the eye, and is soon surrounded 

 by a medley of smudges which are not caused by 



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