Then, through the silence from the far reefs to southward, came the single, lamentable cry of a gull; then a chorus, and away against the vague blue of the east, here and there, like leaves blown about a dimly lit window showed the wings of the birds already putting out to sea for the fishing.
Ratcliffe was awakened by Jude calling on him to “show a leg.”
“Satan’s on deck,” said Jude, “and if you believe in washin’ he’ll give you a swill with a bucket. Hurry up and come down again, for I want a swill myself. Swim? Not on your life! Sharks, that’s why.”
The voice came from a hammock which he had blundered against in the semidarkness. Then on deck after his swill, drying himself with an old towel provided by Satan, he stood for a moment watching the sun break up through the water and the great sea flashing to life and the white gulls flying.
The island was sending a faint breeze to them, a tepid breeze flavored with earth and cactus and bay cedar scents, perfumes that mixed with the tang of the ocean and the tar-oakum scents of the Sarah Tyler.
And all these scents and sounds and sights, from the sun flash on the sea to the trembling palm fronds on the shore, seemed like a great bouquet presented by youth and morning.
Oh, the splendor of being alive, free, happy, without a single care, and the deck of the wandering Sarah under foot!
From below through the skylight came a sleep-heavy voice.
“Ain’t you done yet?”
“Coming,” said Ratcliffe.