THE ISLE OF SUMMER 39 



lacked even the changes of the mainland, gathered, one 

 by one, at the little bay, and called it home and Avalon; 

 and so the little town by the Western sea grew apace. 



We are very near it now, sailing due south down the 

 channel, with the strong inland wind abeam. Watch 

 the cliffs, how boldly they breast the sea, rising like 

 grim giants hundreds of feet in air, with thick beards 

 of waving kelp at their base. Great slopes of green 

 stretch away; then a glimpse of white beaches, of 

 breaking waves gnawing at submerged rocks; a flash 

 of flying-fish wings; canons — rivers of verdure — 

 winding their way skyward; and, far away, the tops 

 of the high mountains of Cabrillo, about whose crests 

 float flecks of cloud in the drowsy air. 



There is something in the soft wind that speaks of 

 contentment and rest. A butterfly drifts aboard and 

 inspects us one by one — a messenger from the Isle of 

 Summer. We pass a pinnacle of rock, and, on a sea 

 of glass, ghde into the httle bay, with its perfect cres- 

 cent beach, its pavilion and hotels, climbing streets 

 and long rows of shops and homes, beyond which the 

 deep canon winds up to distant mountains that over- 

 look the Western sea. 



We have seen that Santa Catalina Island was dis- 

 covered by Cabrillo in 1542, by Vizcaino in 1602, and 

 there can be httle doubt that it has been visited by all 

 the famous voyagers who have come up the coast 

 since, as Avalon Bay is a perfect summer harbor, and 

 the harbor of Catalina, opposite Cabrillo, is equally 

 good in winter, in fact land-locked. On a clear day the 

 island can be seen from the mainland, or from the 

 summit of the Sierras, sixty miles away, lying prone 

 upon the ocean, like some huge Kraken. 



