OUR ISLANDS 169 



of this stone triangle, and on its very apex perched 

 a lonely gull. 



We sat on the brink of the precipice and with 

 heads tilted far back, watched a frigatebird soar- 

 ing overhead. There was something hypnotic in 

 the unceasing song of the wind, the abyss below, 

 and the vast blue vault above, empty save for a 

 pair of outstretched wings that rocked lazily round 

 and round a wide circle. At long intervals those 

 wings flapped twice, then stiffened and held mo- 

 tionless, while the bird, confidently cradled on the 

 rushing air, swung in its chosen orbit and watched 

 its world. There was a dizzy moment when we too 

 seemed to wheel in a great void, when, gasping, we 

 clutched the solid rocks beneath, and brought our 

 eyes, and so our bodies, back to the reality of finite 

 earth and ocean, surf and sand. 



Sometimes, in the confusion of cities, in the 

 midst of the dirt and noise and countless irritations 

 that make civilization seem a deplorable blunder, it 

 is good to remember that a frigatebird is winging 

 over that little secret harbor which, it may be, was 

 never seen by any other human eyes than ours. 



