THE BOOK OF THE TARPON 



struck us. We had reached Charlotte Harbor 

 and were paddling down the La Costa shore 

 when a wall of wind-driven water approached 

 from the southeast. It blotted out the distant 

 shore and the nearer keys. It shut out Joseppi 

 from our sight and pounced upon us with a roar. 



I held my face down with my mouth wide open 

 to catch my breath in the deluge of water. For 

 a few minutes we lost our course and were swept 

 toward the pass. Then we headed our craft into 

 the gale, bearing always to the south that we 

 might strike La Costa before wind and tide could 

 sweep us into the pass and on to the Gulf. Be- 

 fore we made the land every wave was white- 

 capped and the blast swept their crests like sleet 

 in our faces, but we struck the beach by the en- 

 trance to a cove which formed an almost land- 

 locked harbor. The rain ceased in a few min- 

 utes and the blue sky looked as if it had never 

 harbored a cloud, but the wind died slowly and 

 it was an hour before we cared to fight the waves. 



We spent the hour on a little key which cov- 

 ered but the fraction of an acre. It was only a 

 common sand key with a few little trees and a 

 bunch or two of bushes. Yet to us it is a haunted 



8(5 



