NONSUCH 



Scaur out to the east of Gurnet Kock, and the boat 

 rises gently, curves over a great, slow-heaving hill 

 and slides ever so smoothly into the next mobile 

 valley. Ocean is quite asleep, with only the regular 

 rhythm of her mighty swells to differentiate her 

 from a Brobdingnagian mill pond. 



I grasp the bow line tightly, forming a tripod 

 with my two, widespread legs, and, standing as 

 high as possible, watch for an inviting slick. 



On we go, a half mile, eight, even ten furlongs. 

 (I had to look this up as I had no idea how far a 

 furlong was, except that horses won and lost races 

 running them. Follow my example and you will 

 know how far from shore was my flyingfish slick. ) 



We slowed down and stopped in the center of a 

 smooth lane which ran, slightly meanderingly, east 

 and west to the limit of my six-foot elevation of 

 powers of perception. The sculling oar turned us 

 lengthwise of this ocean lane, and slowly we crept 

 along it. Although so far from land, there was only 

 fifty feet of water, and I could distinctly see the 

 coral and rock, sea-fans and sand beneath our keel. 



I crouched in the bow and with an effort focused 

 my eyes on the middle distance, on the intangible 

 surface. Again and again they reshif ted and I would 

 discern the slowly unrolhng panorama of the bot- 

 tom, or by surface reflection my own eager face 

 would be envisaged, always surrounded with the 

 marvelous aureole of light rays. Finally the surface 

 became more concrete ; I concentrated on the living, 

 floating dust, and the water assumed an appearance 



58 



