THE ISLE OF SUMMER 37 



traveller to the Channel Islands starts upon the ocean 

 voyage. In a half-hour the trip is made from Los 

 Angeles City to its port, either by the electric road, 

 the Southern Pacific, or the Salt Lake Railroad. 

 Waiting at the piers is one of the three steamers of 

 the Wilmington Transportation Company — ocean 

 steamers equipped for any weather or season, and 

 carrying up to eight hundred passengers. 



The prow of the Cahrillo is turned seaward, and we 

 are soon ploughing the blue waters of the Santa Catalina 

 Channel. The island is distant about eighteen miles, 

 and the trip across in itself a delightful experience. 

 The sky is clear, the water an indescribable blue, the 

 air invigorating; and the genial captain will guarantee 

 that from May to November, perhaps later, not a 

 stormy day, with squall or gale, shall interrupt the 

 programme; while in winter — if winter it can be 

 called — the immunity from storms and bad weather 

 is remarkable. 



As the steamer surges ahead, numerous flying-fishes 

 dart from the waves in every direction, to the wonder 

 of the tourist who has never seen a fish eighteen inches 

 long soar perhaps an eighth of a mile. Large whales 

 are seen spouting in mid-channel, and a wonderful 

 array of marine life meets the eye. Soon, the island 

 looms up, like some sleeping monster, and takes the 

 shape and form of a mountain range, twenty-two 

 miles long, adrift at sea — a bit of Southern Cali- 

 fornia anchored offshore; an "isle of summer," even 

 in winter. As its lofty mountains and cliffs grow more 

 and more distinct, and the deep shadows merge into 

 canons and ridges, the memory of the island's strange 

 history steals upon us. Where we float, the Httle 



