AN ISLAND EXISTENCE 91 



line of steamships, and an occasional cruising yacht were Ina- 

 gua's only contacts with the outside world. With a sinking 

 feeling I settled in a chair and began tapping the keys of our 

 rusty typewriter. 



It was difficult to admit failure, more difficult to acknowl- 

 edge that there was little excuse for that failure. Only the ex- 

 cessive weariness from the great storm could explain our not 

 posting a watch on deck while we lay becalmed oif an un- 

 known shore. What was there to say? As simply as possible I 

 wrote what had happened and finished the letters a little lamely. 

 That evening, when the schooner had gone, her sails melting 

 into the purplish haze, a deep feeling of despondency settled 

 over me, a depression that I could not shake. Even the sound 

 of the surf echoing against the walls filled me with a vague de- 

 jection. 



My courage reached its lowest ebb several weeks later when 

 I S2iw the white clad form of Wally Coleman disappear on the 

 deck of a steamer that touched at the settlement for a short 

 while on its way north. Word had come making it imperative 

 for him to return home. He had been a jolly companion and I 

 was sorry to see him go. That night the little hut felt more 

 empty than ever and the trade wind increased beyond its usual 

 intensity, howling through the thatch and blowing out the 

 lantern until I sheltered it behind some canvas close to the floor. 

 Only on one other occasion, when I was seeking the nesting 

 site of the flamingo, did the feeling of utter dejection so pene- 

 trate my being. For hours I lay awake tossing on my cot, listen- 

 ing to the dead leaves scurrying across the clearing and the hol- 

 low monotone of surging water. 



This sense of despondency, however, could not last. Inagua 

 was too beautiful to be sad in and there was too much to do. 

 Life alone, though a trial at times, began to assume the pro- 

 portions of an adventure. Even without stirring beyond sight 



