PATROLLING THE BEACH 



T IS not only those who go forth on the sea 

 in ships that have reason to dread our winter 

 southwest storms. When the bark upon the 

 ocean is scudding along under close-reefed 

 topsails, with her decks all awash and the 

 wind shrieking in the rigging, the mightiest 

 of the ocean birds must trim their sails and steer for the open 

 sea, lest they, too, fall victims to the fearful surf that leaps 

 and smites with irresistible power. In their mastery of the air 

 lies their safety, but in their overconfidence and pride, their 

 doom. They venture too near the boisterous water and are 

 stricken down by the waves, powerless, lost. 



It is a wonderful experience to go out to the Cliff House 

 at the close of such a storm and walk down the long beach- 

 line toward the old Ocean House, some miles to the south- 

 ward. The sky is still dark and angry looking, and the wind 

 comes sweeping up the beach and out of the sea. The salt 

 spray is blown into our faces and the waves come crashing 

 in on the beach in mountains of white, glittering spray, roar- 

 ing and thundering until the very sand underfoot seems to 

 tremble with the commotion. Overhead a gull sails swiftly 

 by and vanishes in the mist like a storm-blown fleck of foam. 

 Not another thing of life is visible. The grass upon the sand- 



[29] 



