THE SHARKS OF NARBOROUGH 175 



blossoming of white shrapnel against a blue sky. 

 In each bubble I could see a distorted reflection of 

 myself, my helmet and all my surroundings. 



A glance around showed that every fish had 

 vanished, and not until two or three minutes had 

 passed did they begin slowly coming into view. The 

 sea-lions are the masters of these waters, and I 

 was surprised to see even a great turtle slide hastily 

 out of the way when one came too near. Sharks 

 always disappeared with the fish. 



Even if the fish had not returned I could have 

 watched the movement of the seaweed for hours, 

 it was so unlike the movement of wheat or grass. 

 The whole mass seemed alive — a field of medusa 

 growth — each stem writhing and curling and twist- 

 ing of its own volition, in its own particular way, 

 and yet the whole ebbing and flowing as one frond 

 in obedience to the rhythmic breeze. It was the old 

 story over again of the single corpuscle tmnbling 

 and rolling individually while yet helpless in the 

 general current of the blood; and of the colonial 

 organism — each individual ant doing his own work 

 although bound irrevocably to the will of the whole, 

 and — who knows — it is perhaps no whit different 

 from the apparent free-will personalities of our 

 separate selves, compared with the destiny of the 

 human race. 



I sat me down on a couch of golden, blowing 

 weed, with beautiful green-armed starfish sprawled 

 here and there, and leaning back, watched the bub- 

 bles of my life's breath tumble out from beneath 

 my arms and shoulders. From invisibility, from 



