SLICKING FOR FLYINGFISHES 



a restless urge to see flyingfish for oneself, thus 

 hopelessly destroying any suburban content with 

 travel books and lectures ; and it provides a greater 

 impetus of appreciation, a deeper, more heartfelt 

 spontaneity, whose satisfying chant at the supreme 

 moment of direct realization may be voiced in the 

 sentence, " By Jove! There really are flyingfishes ! " 

 How heartily Roosevelt concurred in this when I 

 was with him years ago on a trip to South America; 

 to explode the gentle, consciously hugged doubts 

 in such dynamic fashion, rather than by the bored, 

 life- weary, "What, flyingfishes? Oh, yes; Ananias 

 Ulysses Methuselah writes about them in his books. 

 I didn't see them myself, but they should have oc- 

 curred about here. I must note it in my journal." 



It is hardly possible to make the trip from New 

 York to Bermuda without becoming convinced of 

 the reality of flyingfishes. This is borne in upon the 

 least observant tourist, even upon the poor wretches 

 who look upon the living sea only during the dummy 

 intervals of a bridge game. 



From Nonsuch we may begin our actual quest in 

 several ways, of which I will choose the most excit- 

 ing. At sunup — or more correctly, earthdrop — 

 we look out to sea and perceive a perfect day ; the 

 water is only slightly ruffled and here and there are 

 slicks, calm as the surface of a mirror. After break- 

 fast we take small boat and outboard motor, and, 

 after the usual amount of top spinning and appro- 

 priate language, the absurd propeller begins to turn 

 and we head around the island through Nonsuch 



57 



