hat mourn, in flowing purple of their Lord forlorn,"--the wide long
stretch north and south of white sand, and the log surf rafts, and the
dark fishermen going up and down on the blue swell--and didn't we draw a
breath of relief of God's pure air.

There was a log craft at the surf edge, with a kid playing beside it,
his reflection perfect in the long backwash. His father talked in a
strange tongue to me, and I looked at the swell and considered, and saw
black men out beyond the surf, and none of them apparently drowned, or
in fear of sharks, so I left shoes and socks with G. and our coachman to
look after her, and the syce to look after the carriage, and tucked up
trousers and away we went together, my heart in my mouth! What joy--bang
into and over the first breaker. I'd nearly to stand upright to keep my
waist dry, and down and up again--the movement quick and exhilarating;
over two other breakers and we were away on the open rollers, and able
to look round to the distant shore, where G. sat with my sketch-book and
a gallery of brown figures. We paddled along to another craft out at sea
that had pulled up its net. Two men were in it, and we made fast to it
till they cleared the fish out of the net, and we took them in a matting
bag on to our raft, where the water washed over them, and we took them
ashore. It was curious to see how neatly and ably these men could haul a
net and clear it of fish on four submerged logs--they could move about,
stand and walk from one end of the logs to the other with freedom. With
the net on board the logs were almost entirely submerged. Running ashore
is the most sporting part of the procedure; we paddled along slanting
towards the beach, waiting for the ninth wave to pass, then went
straight for the sand for all we were worth, and got in in great style;
I must say I nearly lost my balance landing, there were so many natives
wading out to bear a hand that my eye wandered--but what a craft for
the purpose! I vow no boat I ever saw of the size could come on to hard
sand with such a surf behind and not break and throw you out. It is
really a sport with a capital S, though, as far as I can hear, white
people don't go in for it, perhaps because it is said--on what authority
I do not know--that the sharks prefer white people to the natives! The
natives who swim in the surf apparently are not touched by them, yet you
see no Europeans bathing on what I should think would be a delightful
shore fo