The tide was very low, the sun up bright and high, and the water so clear that there was every rock below us so close that it seemed as if we could not go over some of them without touching.
“We’ll row out to the buoyed grapnel,” said Bigley; “make fast, and while you have your bathe I shall dive down, follow the rope, and see if I can find out how the grapnel has got fast.”
“If you can,” I said.
“Well, I’m going to try,” replied Bigley. “I don’t suppose it’s above three fathoms deep.”
“You can’t dive down three fathoms?” I said.
“Can’t I?” replied Bigley laughing. “I’m going to show you. Look here!”
He pointed to a big long stone in the bows of the boat weighing some twenty-pounds. To this a thin line was attached, and I saw his meaning at once.
“Yes,” I said, “that will do it, only don’t forget to let go.”
“No fear,” he replied; and we paddled on, with the beautiful view of the cliffs opening out as we rowed farther from the shore.
We had nearly a quarter of a mile to go before we struck against the floating boat-hook close to the now exposed rocks, when Bigley threw in his oar, hoisted the rough buoy aboard, unhitched the rope, ran it through the ring-bolt, and hauled on till he had the boat’s stem right over the grapnel, which still refused to come; so we made fast.