when the correspondent again opened his eyes, the sea and the sky were each of the grey hue of the dawning. later, carmine and gold was painted upon the waters. the morning appeared finally, in its splendour, with a sky of pure blue, and the sunlight flamed on the tips of the waves.

on the distant dunes were set many little black cottages, and a tall white windmill reared above them. no man, nor dog, nor bicycle appeared on the beach. the cottages might have formed a deserted village.

the voyagers scanned the shore. a conference was held in the boat. "well," said the captain, "if no help is coming we might better try a run through the surf right away. if we stay out here much longer we will be too weak to do anything for ourselves at all." the others silently acquiesced in this reasoning. the boat was headed for the beach. the correspondent wondered if none ever ascended the tall wind-tower, and if then they never looked seaward. this tower was a giant, standing with its back to the plight of the ants. it represented in a degree, to the correspondent, the serenity of nature amid the struggles of the individual—nature in the wind, and nature in the vision of men. she did not seem cruel to him then, nor beneficent, nor treacherous, nor wise. but she was indifferent, flatly indifferent. it is, perhaps, plausible that a man in this situation, impressed with the unconcern of the universe, should see the innumerable flaws of his life, and have them taste wickedly in his mind and wish for another chance. a distinction between right and wrong seems absurdly clear to him, then, in this new ignorance of the grave-edge, and he understands that if he were given another opportunity he would mend his conduct and his words, and be better and brighter during an introduction or at a tea.

"now, boys," said the captain, "she is going to swamp, sure. all we can do is to work her in as far as possible, and then when she swamps, pile out and scramble for the beach. keep cool now, and don't jump until she swamps sure."

the oiler took the oars. over his shoulders he scanned the surf. "captain," he said, "i think i'd better bring her about, and keep her head-on to the seas and back her in."

"all right, billie," said the captain. "back her in." the oiler swung the boat then and, seated in the stern, the cook and the correspondent were obliged to look over their shoulders to contemplate the lonely and indifferent shore.

the monstrous in-shore rollers heaved the boat high until the men were again enabled to see the white sheets of water scudding up the slanted beach. "we won't get in very close," said the captain. each time a man could wrest his attention from the rollers, he turned his glance toward the shore, and in the expression of the eyes during this contemplation there was a singular quality. the correspondent, observing the others, knew that they were not afraid, but the full meaning of their glances was shrouded.

as for himself, he was too tired to grapple fundamentally with the fact. he tried to coerce his mind into thinking of it, but the mind was dominated at this time by the muscles, and the muscles said they did not care. it merely occurred to him that if he should drown it would be a shame.

there were no hurried words, no pallor, no plain agitation. the men simply looked at the shore. "now, remember to get well clear of the boat when you jump," said the captain.

seaward the crest of a roller suddenly fell with a thunderous crash, and the long white comber came roaring down upon the boat.

"steady now," said the captain. the men were silent. they turned their eyes from the shore to the comber and waited. the boat slid up the incline, leaped at the furious top, bounced over it, and swung down the long back of the wave. some water had been shipped and the cook bailed it out.

but the next crest crashed also. the tumbling boiling flood of white water caught the boat and whirled it almost perpendicular. water swarmed in from all sides. the correspondent had his hands on the gunwale at this time, and when the water entered at that place he swiftly withdrew his fingers, as if he objected to wetting them.

the little boat, drunken with this weight of water, reeled and snuggled deeper into the sea.

"bail her out, cook! bail her out," said the captain.

"all right, captain," said the cook.

"now, boys, the next one will do for us, sure," said the oiler. "mind to jump clear of the boat."

the third wave moved forward, huge, furious, implacable. it fairly swallowed the dingey, and almost simultaneously the men tumbled into the sea. a piece of life-belt had lain in the bottom of the boat, and as the correspondent went overboard he held this to his chest with his left hand.

the january water was icy, and he reflected immediately that it was colder than he had expected to find it off the coast of florida. this appeared to his dazed mind as a fact important enough to be noted at the time. the coldness of the water was sad; it was tragic. this fact was somehow so mixed and confused with his opinion of his own situation that it seemed almost a proper reason for tears. the water was cold.

when he came to the surface he was conscious of little but the noisy water. afterward he saw his companions in the sea. the oiler was ahead in the race. he was swimming strongly and rapidly. off to the correspondent's left, the cook's great white and corked back bulged out of the water, and in the rear the captain was hanging with his one good hand to the keel of the overturned dingey.

there is a certain immovable quality to a shore, and the correspondent wondered at it amid the confusion of the sea.

it seemed also very attractive, but the correspondent knew that it was a long journey, and he paddled leisurely. the piece of life-preserver lay under him, and sometimes he whirled down the incline of a wave as if he were on a hand-sled.

but finally he arrived at a place in the sea where travel was beset with difficulty. he did not pause swimming to inquire what manner of current had caught him, but there his progress ceased. the shore was set before him like a bit of scenery on a stage, and he looked at it and understood with his eyes each detail of it.

as the cook passed, much farther to the left, the captain was calling to him, "turn over on your back, cook! turn over on your back and use the oar."

"all right, sir." the cook turned on his back, and, paddling with an oar, went ahead as if he were a canoe.

presently the boat also passed to the left of the correspondent with the captain clinging with one hand to the keel. he would have appeared like a man raising himself to look over a board fence, if it were not for the extraordinary gymnastics of the boat. the correspondent marvelled that the captain could still hold to it.

they passed on, nearer to shore—the oiler, the cook, the captain—and following them went the water-jar, bouncing gaily over the seas.

the correspondent remained in the grip of this strange new enemy—a current. the shore, with its white slope of sand and its green bluff, topped with little silent cottages, was spread like a picture before him. it was very near to him then, but he was impressed as one who in a gallery looks at a scene from brittany or holland.

he thought: "i am going to drown? can it be possible? can it be possible? can it be possible?" perhaps an individual must consider his own death to be the final phenomenon of nature.

but later a wave perhaps whirled him out of this small deadly current, for he found suddenly that he could again make progress toward the shore. later still, he was aware that the captain, clinging with one hand to the keel of the dingey, had his face turned away from the shore and toward him, and was calling his name. "come to the boat! come to the boat!"

in his struggle to reach the captain and the boat, he reflected that when one gets properly wearied, drowning must really be a comfortable arrangement, a cessation of hostilities accompanied by a large degree of relief, and he was glad of it, for the main thing in his mind for some moments had been horror of the temporary agony. he did not wish to be hurt.

presently he saw a man running along the shore. he was undressing with most remarkable speed. coat, trousers, shirt, everything flew magically off him.

"come to the boat," called the captain.

"all right, captain." as the correspondent paddled, he saw the captain let himself down to bottom and leave the boat. then the correspondent performed his one little marvel of the voyage. a large wave caught him and flung him with ease and supreme speed completely over the boat and far beyond it. it struck him even then as an event in gymnastics, and a true miracle of the sea. an overturned boat in the surf is not a plaything to a swimming man.

the correspondent arrived in water that reached only to his waist, but his condition did not enable him to stand for more than a moment. each wave knocked him into a heap, and the under-tow pulled at him.

then he saw the man who had been running and undressing, and undressing and running, come bounding into the water. he dragged ashore the cook, and then waded towards the captain, but the captain waved him away, and sent him to the correspondent. he was naked, naked as a tree in winter, but a halo was about his head, and he shone like a saint. he gave a strong pull, and a long drag, and a bully heave at the correspondent's hand. the correspondent, schooled in the minor formulæ, said: "thanks, old man." but suddenly the man cried: "what's that?" he pointed a swift finger. the correspondent said: "go."

in the shallows, face downward, lay the oiler. his forehead touched sand that was periodically, between each wave, clear of the sea.

the correspondent did not know all that transpired afterward. when he achieved safe ground he fell, striking the sand with each particular part of his body. it was as if he had dropped from a roof, but the thud was grateful to him.

it seems that instantly the beach was populated with men with blankets, clothes, and flasks, and women with coffee-pots and all the remedies sacred to their minds. the welcome of the land to the men from the sea was warm and generous, but a still and dripping shape was carried slowly up the beach, and the land's welcome for it could only be the different and sinister hospitality of the grave.

when it came night, the white waves paced to and fro in the moonlight, and the wind brought the sound of the great sea's voice to the men on shore, and they felt that they could then be interpreters.