44 FOLLOW THE WHALE 



over his head so that he cannot see, he feels his way to the rail and 

 pours the wine into the sea. This done, the men raise a shout and 

 fall to work. 



The Gods have been propitiated and the spirit of Him who some- 

 times resides in the body of the "Lamb of the Sea" has been ap- 

 peased. These are simple fishermen, but they are devoutly conscious 

 of the ways and the feelings of the Gods. Also, being men, they 

 know that what they are about to attempt is but the ritual slaughter 

 of the earthly body of the best disposed of all the Gods, who is 

 friendly to all mortals but especially so to those men who go upon 

 the sea. Thus they are now free to proceed with the work at hand. 

 They seize tridents, long lines to which massive bales of cork-oak 

 bark are attached, and a bundle of white fish net. 



Two, bearing tridents, clamber quickly to either side of the bow, 

 while the linesmen arrange themselves amidships holding the cork 

 bales, and two others make the net ready aft on the windward 

 quarter, piling it so that it may be tossed instantly into the sea. Sail 

 is somewhat shortened, and those in the bow raise the tridents high 

 above their heads and poise their cruel, sharp points forward and 

 downward at the glistening waves which are parted by the onrush- 

 ing boat. And thus the tableau holds for many moments while seven 

 pairs of eyes watch the blue waves immediately ahead with a fierce 

 concentration. Somewhere in those waves are sleek bodies that rush 

 along as if propelled by some mechanical device unknown to these 

 simple men. Sooner or later those sleek forms will one by one rush 

 to the surface and curve gracefully out into the air. One by one they 

 will come, like children playing leapfrog, all in a straight, evenly 

 spaced line, the big ones in front, the little ones at the back. 



And then all at once they do come. Out of the spume at the very 

 point of the boat's prow shoots a dark-blue spindle. With the utmost 

 ease and grace and apparently without any effort, it simply darts 

 ahead of the rushing boat and sails into the air. And down into the 

 middle of its tight, shiny back goes the keen, barbed trident, driven 

 with all the might of the muscled man above it. The Sea Lamb 

 falters in mid-air and then, curving desperately to the right, smashes 

 into the oncoming waves, sending a column of glistening white foam 

 into the air. Immediately a shout is raised, the shaft of the trident 



