THE DREAM SHIP 



We had left the Marquesas seven days 

 previously, and were now becalmed in 

 that maze of atolls known as the Pau- 

 motu, or Low Archipelago. 



Imagine a circular beach of glistening- 

 coral sand and green vegetation from 

 live to fifty yards wide, thrust up through 

 the sea for all the world like a hedge, and 

 inclosing a garden of coral fronds sub- 

 merged under water so still and clear as 

 to be hardly visible, and you have an 

 atoll as I saw it from the masthead. 



There were myriads of them — big 

 atolls, little atolls, fat and thin atolls — 

 fading away into the shimmering heat 

 haze of the horizon. The fairies must 

 have been mighty busy down this way. 



I descended to the deck and things 

 mundane. "What to do when becalmed 

 in a network of coral reefs and seven- 

 knot currents" was the problem that con- 

 fronted us. 



A RACE OF MERMEN 



I had no text -book on the subject, but 

 by some miracle the thing we called an 

 engine was persuaded to fire on two of 

 its four cylinders, and the Dream Ship 

 tottered through the narrow gateway in 

 the hedge — I should say, pass in the 

 reef — and came to anchor in the gar- 

 den — I mean lagoon. 



It was sunrise, and already the pearl- 

 ing canoes were putting out from the 

 village and scurrying to the fishing 

 grounds over the glassy surface of the 

 lagoon. 



A fine people, these of the atolls — up- 

 standing, deep of chest, a race of mer- 

 men if ever there was one. From birth 

 up, if they are not in the water they are 

 on it or as close to it as they can get. 

 Take them inland and they die. So they 

 squat on their canoe outriggers, smok- 

 ing, chatting, laughing, until the spirit 

 moves them (nothing else will), and one 

 of their number drops from sight, feet 

 first, with hardly a ripple. 



You look down and you see him, as 

 though through green-tinted glass, 

 crouched on the sloping floor of the 

 lagoon. He is plucking oysters as one 

 would gather flowers in a garden. There 

 is no haste in his movements, nothing to 

 indicate that there is any time limit to 

 his remaining down there, under any- 



thing from five to fifteen fathoms of 

 water. 



A minute passes, two minutes ; still he 

 pursues his leisurely way, plucking to 

 right and left and thrusting the shells 

 into a network bag about his neck. 



UNDER WATER THREE MINUTES 



The man of the atolls is in a world of 

 his own, where none but his kind can 

 follow, and the}' still squat on their out- 

 riggers, chatting and laughing like a 

 crowd of boys at a swimming pool. 



One alone seems interested in the 

 diver's movements ; his mate, a fair- 

 skinned woman, with streaming blue- 

 black hair, leans over the gunwale of the 

 canoe, looking down through a kerosene 

 tin water-glass. 



The diver's dark figure against the 

 pale-green coral becomes more blurred: 

 a stream of silver air bubbles floats up- 

 ward. Three minutes by the watch have 

 come and gone. To the landsman it 

 seems incredible ; and even then there is 

 no haste, no shooting to the surface and 

 gasps for breath. 



The dark body becomes clearer in out- 

 line as it emerges from the depths, and 

 slowly, quite slowly, floats upward until 

 a jet-black head breaks water and the 

 diver clings to the gunwale of the canoe, 

 inhaling deep but unhurried breaths and 

 exhaling with a long-drawn whistle pe- 

 culiarly his own. 



In what way this whistle helps matters, 

 it is impossible to say, but whether a 

 habit, a pose, or an aid in the regaining 

 of breath, it is universal throughout the 

 Paumotus; so much so that a busy after- 

 noon with the pearlers sounds more like 

 a tin-whistle band than anything else. 



With the people of the atolls the ability 

 to remain under water for long periods 

 is more than an art; it is second nature. 

 Instinctively, they do just those things 

 that make one breath suffice for three 

 minutes and sometimes four. 



Preparatory to a descent they do not 

 take a deep breath and hold it until the 

 surface is reached again. They fill their 

 lungs with a normal amount of air. which 

 lasts them about a minute and a half; 

 the other minute and a half is occupied 

 in its exhalation. Then. too. every move- 

 ment below water is made with the ut- 

 most conservation of energy ; yet a good 



