THE WINDS WILL 



131 



Coming 

 down to the 



the sea on the other side dashing ten or fifteen 

 feet above your head. Notwithstanding you 

 are in the dunes and away from all buildings 

 there is a reverberating roar in the wind that 

 speaks of the shock in the upper air; and 

 though you are down in a hollow there is an- 

 other roar that comes rolling in from the sea. 

 The tumult of the waves is felt before it is 

 seen. Above the tops of the outer dunes great 

 sheets of sand whirl through the air and shut 

 out the view. In the momentary pauses of 

 gust following gust — between the sheets — 

 comes a glimpse of the North Sea. It is not 

 blue or green or opal but tawny and yellow; 

 not clear as crystal with snow-white crests, 

 but rolled full of grit from the beaches, 

 dirty-looking as though churned with bottom 

 mud. For a half-mile out from shore all the 

 water looks like cafe-au-lait; and the foam on 

 the waves, the froth on the beach, are as 

 whipped cream. The waves are driving in 

 long diagonal ranks — each one traveling along 

 the coast, breaking on its beach end, and finally 

 disappearing from view in sand and sptray. 

 Beyond the coffee-colored shore water, where 

 the depth is greater, a clearer sea shows. It 

 is still yellowish, it even borders upon topaz 

 without being so transparent; but from the 



Look of the 

 North Sea 

 in storm. 



