"Breakers!" he cried hoarsely.
We listened with straining ears. He was right. The low, ominous
murmur changed to a distant roar, grew louder yet, and yet louder,
and was no longer distant.
"It will be the sand islets off Cape Charles, sir," he said. I nodded.
He and I knew there was no need of words.
The sky grew paler and paler, and soon upon the woof of the
clouds a splash of dull yellow showed where the sun would be.
The fog rose, laying bare the desolate ocean. Before us were two
very small islands, mere handfuls of sand, lying side by side, and
encompassed half by the open sea, half by stiller waters diked in
by marshes and sand bars. A coarse, scanty grass and a few stunted
trees with branches bending away from the sea lived upon them,
but nothing else. Over them and over the marshes and the sand
banks circled myriads of great white gulls. Their harsh, unearthly
voices came to us faintly, and increased the desolation of earth and
sky and sea.
To the shell-strewn beach of the outer of the two islets raced long
lines of surf, and between us and it lurked a sand bar, against
which the great rollers dashed with a bull-like roar. The wind
drove us straight upon this bar. A moment of deadly peril and it
had us fast, holding us for the waves to beat our life out. The boat
listed, then rested, quivering through all its length.
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