THE BOOK OF THE TARPON 



Sanibel Light on our starboard beam. As he 

 turned the wheel over to me, the captain said: 



"Tide'll be all right for the swash channel at 

 Marco in the mornin'. Better call me before you 

 try to make it." 



"Sure thing, Captain. Good night." 



"Good night." 



I knew every rod of the course and had sailed 

 it a score of times, as I had often trodden every 

 foot of the beach we were passing, but I lacked 

 the sailor quality of mind and corrected my 

 course every two minutes by the compass, while 

 taking an occasional backward glance to make 

 sure that the lighthouse hadn't been moved. Un- 

 der similar circumstances the captain would have 

 blocked the wheel with a stick and walked about 

 with his pipe, returning to his post when his 

 favorite star got out of the limits he had as- 

 signed to it. 



The cradle-like motion of the craft sent the 

 Girl and the Camera-man to sleep and I kept 

 the first watch alone. Solemn as well as soli- 

 tary it seemed to me. The slow, rhythmic swash, 

 as the Irene's bow dipped in the hollows between 

 the waves, and the far-off roar as they swept the 



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