AFTERMATH
(I) HAVE been spending a musical evening in town with our

friends, the Art students, and are now on board the late

boat homeward bound. Wind and tide permitting, we will
be home in three-quarters of an hour. The day has been fine, and
even at this late hour a stiff wind is blowing up a heavy sea in the
bay outside. To reach the opposite shore on which we live, a seeth-
ing mass of wave and foam—the tide rip—has to be crossed. The
inlet on which we now travel is sheltered, and we have settled our-
selves on the open top-deck to enjoy the beauty of the night.
Down the tide, quiet as a ghost, our tiny boat speeds, swift and sure
towards the opening of the bay. The mountains looming black
against the sky, close down on every side. The stars, cold, bright,
crystal clear, burn down through the darkness, and the magic pulse
of the night is in our ears. Yet, even in an instant, the quiet is gone.
A threat of danger fills the air — the wind tears suddenly at our
throats and the stars give a sudden lurch, beginning a drunken reel
about our masthead! Backwards, forwards, plunging, tossing, the
little craft is being buffeted and thrown in all directions. Breathless,
soaked to the skin, we cling to our seats as the boat reels over and
still further over, the masts and the water nearly parallel.

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