I don't know exactly what induced me to go out there. I was young
for one thing, the country was unknown, the berth was vacant, and the
conditions of it easy.
Imagine a high rocky point or headland, stretching out sideways into
the sea, and at its base a small river winding into a country that
was seemingly a blank in regard to inhabitants or cultivation; a land
continuing for miles and miles, as far as the eye could see, one expanse
of long yellow grass, dotted here and there with groups of bastard
palms. In front of the headland rolled the lonely South Atlantic; and,
as if such conditions were not dispiriting enough to existence upon the
Point, there was yet another feature which at times gave the place a
still more ghastly look. A long way off the shore, the heaving surface
of the ocean began, in anything like bad weather, to break upon the
shoals of the coast. Viewed from the top of the rock, the sea at such
times looked, for at least two miles out, as if it were scored over with
lines of white foam; but lower down, near the beach, each roller could
be distinctly seen, and each roller had a curve of many feet, and was an
enormous mass of water that hurled itself shoreward until it curled and
broke.
Pages:
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64