SLICKING FOR FLYINGFISHES 



ultramarine to the summit of a hill of sheer lapis 

 lazuli. 



One day in mid-June we headed aft a mile to a 

 great field of seaweed. The faint breath of air which 

 had arisen was perceptible only where it evanes- 

 cently feathered the surface, leaving here and there 

 great arenas, or long lanes of slick. 



As I stood in the bow and looked down, the sun's 

 light radiated as usual from my center of vision 

 and so clear was the water and so profound the sense 

 of materiality of the rays, that it seemed as if a 

 dive would shoot me down a never-ending cone, 

 waterless and lined with the blue-grey, velvety bars 

 of light. 



These slicks were not phenomena of an hour or 

 a day, for some of them contained vast masses of 

 sargassum weed, floating berries, rounded heads 

 with sprouting fronds reaching up out of the water, 

 or solid mats many yards across. Some slicks had no 

 trace of weed, and yet their edges were as sharp as if 

 made by some real barrier. Probably the weed which 

 had oiled such an area had died and begun its slow 

 submergence. 



We traveled fast at first, the outboard motor 

 going full speed, and when we reached the slick, we 

 found that we had to deal with inchling or even 

 larger flyingfish, and must develop a wholly new 

 technique from that used near shore. It was tre- 

 mendously exciting and reminded me of nothing so 

 much as Ben Hur driving his chariot. Other similes 

 might be pigsticking from a stand on horseback, or 



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