MESSING AROUND IN MEXICO 



dusk found us crouching behind improvised 

 blinds on its edge. 



First came the plover and the curlew, mew- 

 ing mournfully, and we limbered up on them; 

 then, as the sun hid behind the peaks, the 

 ducks began to bore in. They came like bul- 

 lets widgeon, gadwall, bluebill, sprig and 

 the darker it grew the swifter they came, 

 rocketing out of the gloom until we were snap- 

 shooting at blurs against a dying sky and 

 marking the dead birds by the splash. At 

 our backs the sea whispered lazily; now 

 and then, through the straining silence, came 

 the sound of whales blowing a vast, hollow, 

 whistling echo, like the exhaust of some 

 slow-turning engine more mighty than man 

 had ever dreamed of. Believe me, it was 

 some evening. 



March is stormy on the gulf. The winds 

 pour down its seven-hundred-mile length as 

 if they had nothing else to do, and a small 

 boat needs skillful handling. We were in a 

 bad anchorage, and before morning we were 

 driven out. Up the coast we hogged, turning 

 handsprings around one spouting headland 

 after another in search of a hiding place. 

 We nosed in finally under the partial shelter 



241 



