The Strife of the Sea

by T. Jenkins Hains

The Conch had walked far away down the cay where his boat was hauled up. His companion sat in the stern-sheets and lazily bailed the water from her. When he had finished, the two men shoved her off and hoisted a small sail. Then swinging her bow around before the breeze, they headed away toward the distant line of white which showed to the eastward where a larger cay of the Bank rose from the sea. After they had gone the loggerhead watched the rippling water along the shore. Soon the head of a huge turtle appeared, and in a few minutes the great form of another like himself hauled slowly and lazily up the beach.

Before dark several followers had hauled up to high-water mark. On the cay was soft fine sand of a nature not unlike that of more northern beaches, and this had banked above the coral to a depth of three or more feet.

With flippers of horny hardness and gigantic power the females began to cut their way down. They scooped and scooped until they had holes at least two feet deep nicely rounded and firmly packed on the sides as though they were cemented. Then they dropped slowly egg after egg into the little pits until a hundred or more had packed themselves into the receptacles. The shells of the eggs were soft like leather, and each egg had a small dent which showed it was fresh. Then as the night wore on they softly covered the pits with sand and carefully smoothed them over until not the slightest trace of any disturbance of the surface showed. It was nice work, for the sand was soft, and the signs of digging were easily made, but hard to conceal, and it was nearly dawn before the females were satisfied with their efforts. Then they slipped slowly down the sand into the sea and disappeared to return no more. Their task was done.

The huge loggerhead who had led the way up the beach watched the departing turtles as they went to sea. The sound of the murmuring ocean was in the morning air, the song of the south sea awakening the day as the soft wind sighed over heaving swell and rippled the beautiful wavelets until they rolled into little combers and flashed white in the sunshine. All about him was the light of the tropic dawn. The sweet breath of the trade wind fanned his iron-hard head and he opened his eyes lazily to watch the sunrise. It was well. The beauty of the world attracted him.

Far away on the horizon the spurts of foam showed the beginning of the strenuous life of the destroyers. He watched them lazily and wondered at their fierceness, their uselessness of purpose. Then he saw a form coming down the beach and looked eastward where the boat of the Conchs had made the shore again.

The black man went slowly along the beach prodding the sand at high-water mark wherever he saw the tracks of turtles. He had a long, thin piece of iron with a sharp end which he drove into the sand and withdrew again, looking at the end to see if there was any sign of egg-yolk adhering to it. Once he struck a place where a turtle had scooped out a nest, and the dripping iron caused him to give a cry to his companion in the boat. Then he threw down a sack and dug until he had unearthed the eggs, which he transferred quickly to the bag, and picking up his iron staff he went along, bending down to watch the tracks more closely.

The loggerhead watched him out of the corner of his eye and thought of the turtle who had lost her eggs, but the whole thing interested him but little and he made his way slowly down the sand to avoid being hit over the head with the iron rod because the Conch did not like him.

The Conch saw him as he gained the surf, but he knew him, and shaking his staff at him he went along searching for more prizes.

The great loggerhead swam easily just below the surface where the sunlight filtered down and made the liquid a bright blue. He had no object, and held his course across the Gulf Stream, letting himself drift with the current. It was well to live and the uselessness of effort was more apparent to him since he had seen the Conch’s work on the cay of the Bahama Bank.

The warm stream was rushing silently northward and the gentle wind caused but little roll to the sea. The loggerhead could lie upon the surface and poke his head out, getting a glimpse of the eternal rim of the circle which had no break. But he cared nothing for land, and the sea was sparkling and blue. The sun overhead sent down hot rays which he felt through his thick armor of shell, but when it grew too warm he cooled himself by sinking a few feet below the surface for several minutes.