DISSEI, BROWN ISLAND 47 



Italian. One of the older ones had been one of our old 

 bulkbasch. He knew Rome and told us of his battles under the 

 Italian flag. 



We left for Dissei on 7th February, entrusted to the care 

 of an austere but charming bearded Dankalian, Sayéd Alawi 

 Saleh, narcuda, that is to say licensed 'pilot'. Sayéd became 

 our inseparable Charon and guided us with sure hands 

 through the most tortuous mazes of the madreporic 

 archipelago. 



We left port at 6.30 on a glorious morning and at 9.30 

 had already entered the island's biggest bay. On its shore 

 sprouted an attempt at a village, twenty huts apparently 

 uninhabited. The water was blue and the island rose high, 

 her backbone undulating with ancient volcanic cones. 



The engine hummed. We were near to discovering our first 

 tropical island never explored by frogmen and probably so 

 far never studied seriously by man. The little row-boat 

 galloped blithely over the reef of brown-red coral. Cecco let 

 out his line, Priscilla stared at the dead volcanoes while I 

 reloaded the rifle, for my eyes had alighted on the immense 

 madreporic reefs to the north where flocks of hundreds of 

 birds were afloat, white as the foam. The second of the three 

 dinghies, carrying the Buchers, Silverio Zecca and Alberto 

 Grazioli, cut away in our direction too. The plan was that 

 they should stop just beyond while we should get to know 

 the zone furthest north and turn the point if necessary. 



The coast was steep and deserted, softened only at the 

 base by a very short tongue of sand. Under the sea this sand 

 opened out and joined the barrier a hundred yards further, 

 out. 



