BATTLEFIELD OF THE SHORE 



clusters of small black mussels, anchored firmly in 

 sheltered hollows. Close overhead swooped a pair 

 of creaking tropicbirds, wheeling and circling in 

 raucous protest at my too close approach to their 

 young, undetectable, except to the sense of smell, 

 at the end of some long, meandering tunnel. 



I reached my cover safely, peered around it and 

 instantly darted back, and tried to become a limpet, 

 crab and mussel at once. It was no use. I was only a 

 human being, quite out of place. My clothing kept 

 catching on corners and I was again knocked off 

 my feet. This time, like white mice and other higher 

 terrestrial mammals, I had learned by trial and 

 error, and did not fight against the backwash, but 

 allowed it to sweep me around the corner in full 

 view of the open sea. Another mighty roller was 

 headed in, and met the backwash, and the two, after 

 leaping high in air, sank rather quietly and quickly, 

 leaving me limp and looking much like a drowned 

 rat, braced with all my muscles against an impact 

 which did not materialize. As result of this I pitched 

 seawards and was rolled partly over, my side scrap- 

 ing against a submarine cross-cut saw of sorts. A 

 lull ensued, so long that a dozen little fish came and 

 dashed about excitedly, apparently wrought to 

 highest pitch by the presence of my life blood dif- 

 fused through the water. 



I marched unsteadily onward and found a partly 

 submerged reef just before the next wave came, and 

 with its undertow I struck out strongly from shore. 

 Twice I was carried back almost to the rocks a few 



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