Big Game at Sea 



and I think the author of this mot found his inspira- 

 tion on the reef on a warm day while trailing the 

 sea-bat. 



The heat was appalling, pouring down with such 

 intensity that the shallows were too hot for comfort, 

 and nebulous clouds wavered upward from the bleach- 

 ing coral sand, distorting every object along shore. 

 For days the dead calm had continued; the long sleepy 

 summer was at its height, and one had to pick his 

 time for sport and diversion. There was an hour or 

 two at sunrise for barracuda spearing, or for the 

 beating jacks; a long siesta at midday, then a while 

 toward evening perhaps when one could lure the 

 dainty gray snapper or test conclusions with the big 

 sharks which swam the blue channel at all times. 

 Then came the night, often cool, to be spent on the 

 water listening to the melody of negro rowers, the 

 weird tales of Chief, a Seminole, who preferred 

 the heat of the outer reef to the mosquitos of the 

 coast. 



On such a night, when the only sound to break the 

 stillness was the distant roar of the surf, there came 

 out of the darkness, near at hand, a rushing, swishing 

 noise; then a clap as of thunder, which seemed to go 

 roaring and reverberating away over the reef, like 

 the discharge of cannon. So startling was the sound, 

 so peculiar, that the negroes stopped rowing, and one 

 or two dropped their oars in consternation. 



" Vampa fish, sah," said Paublo, the stroke oar, in 



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