CHIRPING GIANTS I59 



preparing the bomb. He stuck the detonator in that pound 

 lump of butter. Gigi was already standing wobbling on his 

 game leg, ready to blow the rock into the air. Ready? Let 

 him have it. 



The sea was calm and sparkling gloriously under the sun. 

 The whale-shark swayed a little and a shoal of pilot fish 

 splashed around. The bomb was cunning; tied to a cork by 

 a string and a short fuse. Gigi threw it and Cecco rowed 

 madly away. The package dropped in front of the snout of 

 the whale-shark, a snout that was five feet across, and the 

 fuse fizzed like liver salts. The whale-shark became restless, 

 flipped its tail and moved forward. The bomb went under it, 

 although the cork helped to keep it near the surface. The 

 whale-shark stopped again and the last inch of fuse was 

 burning to the left of its belly. . . . 



The sea was calm and sparkling again. The explosion had 

 very nearly sunk the boat. The whale-shark had moved off 

 slowly, superbly, imperiously, and disappeared into the 

 depths. As a souvenir it left a soup of rigid pilot fish. 



At Ras Felag Bacar. Cecco and Gigi were hunting in deep 

 water for big game, but without success. I was rowing behind 

 them, smoking and chatting with Priscilla. We noticed 

 something in the distance splashing like the deuce. I called 

 the swimmers and we set off with the engine roaring. It 

 turned out to be two huge turtles flirting between the waves. 

 The female, the larger of the two, was on her back with 

 only her head above water. The male who was head-over- 

 heels, did not realize that eight inquisitive eyes were pro- 

 faning his privacy. The female saw us all only too well and 

 wanted to call it a day, but the male kept her prisoner. 



