162 



THE OPAL SEA 



Gray 

 waters. 



A wreck on 



Goodwin 



Sands. 



Far down at the foot of the dunes are the 

 waves. When the tide is at flood the golfer, if 

 he will, may look out upon the gray water where 

 dingy sails of ships melt into thick misty air, 

 where Channel fishing-boats bob up and down 

 in the choppy waves, and where coal-burning 

 steamers, coming up Dover way with the wind, 

 are smothered in their own smoke — dirty black- 

 hulled steamers that wallow and stagger through 

 the gray-yellow water as though top heavy. It is 

 a wonderful sea, at times a terrible sea, a sea 

 that has been often strewn with wrecks and is 

 ever dreaded by the sailor. To-day perhaps it is 

 tranquil enough but to-morrow it may be dash- 

 ing high over Goodwin Sands, threatening the 

 shipping in the Downs; and foaming up the 

 dunes with caps of spray that leap and ride 

 upon the winds like Valkyries. Not the depth 

 of the water but its shallowness makes it dan- 

 gerous. A ship driven in by a gale strikes 

 upon the Sands, is lifted and pounded by the 

 come-and-go of each wave, is strained and 

 wrenched from stem to rudder post; until at 

 last with opened seams and broken back she 

 rolls a helpless wreck. Backward and forward 

 she tosses as the waves come and go — waves that 

 are all fury and swing over the hulk with a sav- 

 age swish, tearing at blocks and sheets and 



