ALMOST ISLAND 



string and I the pen or pencil or marker on the 

 periphery. 



My apparatus is, of course, our old story — the 

 same double-action pump, a forty-foot metal ladder, 

 two generous lengths of hose and the metal helmet 

 with four weights, which I have used for years in 

 the Galapagos and West Indies. The helmets are 

 dull now and show hard usage, dents from over- 

 hanging Galapagos lava blocks, scratches from the 

 low-arched tunnels of Cocos and Panama, and the 

 branching coral in Haiti. But they are as good as 

 ever, fitting to the back and shoulder like well- 

 worn clothing. 



The helmet on, I straightened out and slid down 

 the ladder, reaching out my hand now and then to 

 orient myself. Two swallows en route are usually 

 sufficient to equalize the air pressure in my ears. 

 I touched bottom gently, settled my helmet and 

 looked up. This is probably the most instinctive 

 movement of anyone, beginners or old veteran div- 

 ers — a desire to make certain that the only line 

 of retreat is open. Daily overhead I saw the amus- 

 ing keel of the launch, rolling slowly in the swell — 

 the fore and aft ropes looping into blue distance, 

 the long sinuous black snake of a hose, with my head 

 in its maw and its tail vanishing above the keel. The 

 ladder waved slowly back and forth, from the sand 

 beneath my feet up to heaven, and while I was not 

 privileged to see angels ascending and descending, 

 I did rejoice in the sight of jolly sergeant majors, 

 or abudef dufs as I prefer to call them, with black 



35 



