Sept., 1905 | AMONG THE SEA BIRDS OFF THE OREGON COAST, PART I 
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of the surf was growing fainter. In the gray light of every morning, we crawled 
out to see if we could detect a sufficient gap in the on-coming line of combers. 
Then one morning, when we were impatient of waiting, we made a trial of 
driving our boat through the lowest place in the surf-barrier. We waded in with 
our little dory until she floated. Watching our chance, when the waves were 
SIDE OF ROCK SHOWING CAMP ON LEDGE, AND WAY TO SUMMIT 
Courtesy of The Pacific Monthly 
smallest, we jumped to our oars. The nose of the boat plowed through the foam 
of the first and second breaker, but they tossed her like a toothpick. She shot at 
the third like a hunter at a fence, but failed to reach the top before it combed. 
Crash! came half a ton of green, foaming water down my back. We swerved a 
little to the right, and another monster grew up like magic. Biff! came ten tons 
