The Strife of the Sea

by T. Jenkins Hains

Several big barnacles which had attached themselves to his underbody made navigation tiresome, for he had to drag them through the water along with him, but it was too much trouble to scrape them off. He had seen some of his fellows do this on the rocks of the Florida Reef, but it was laborious work and he preferred to take things easy.

He was not an old turtle. Some of his fellows had lived for several centuries and were old before he was born. But he had grown very large since the day he first saw the sun shining over the reef at Roncador. He was but a tiny little fellow then, and his shell was so soft that he felt the sun burn through it. His leather-like skin on his neck was tender and even his bony beak could hardly cut the soft Gulf weed. His flippers were dark and soft and very unlike the huge scaly paddles he now used to scull himself along. He was quite rapid in his movements then, but life upon the tropical sea had gradually had the effect of making him sluggish and philosophical. The sunshine was all he cared for.

He had no trouble getting enough to eat without fighting for it. It seemed a great waste of energy to be eternally chasing other and weaker creatures, and now he had drifted instinctively back to the habits of his forefathers. He took things very coolly. When a savage shark or albicore made a strike at him he did not retaliate by snapping at them with his huge beak which would now slice out a couple of pounds of wood from a floating log and shear through anything living. He simply hauled in his paddles and stump of a tail to the sheltering safety of his armor and the vigorous fish might chop all day at him for all he cared. Their teeth might scratch his shell a little, but the powerful arch of his back made it impossible to crush him and a few scratches upon his plates would not injure him in any way whatever. His head he might draw in until his ugly beak and steady eyes looked out of a sort of cavern. It was trifling with sudden death to come within the radius of a foot of that nose, and the vigorous fish after tormenting him a few minutes generally gave him a shove and left him in disgust.

After they had gone away he would slowly and lazily shove out his paddles again and proceed to scull himself leisurely on his way, his small, dull mind undisturbed at the affront. Such creatures were a nuisance to him, but they were in existence and it was not for him to worry because they were. He would go along in the sunshine and soft air in his easy way, and when these no longer attracted him he would draw in his head, upset himself, then, thrusting it forward again, go sculling for the cool depths where he would spend many hours among the beautiful marine growths fathoms below the surface upon the coral reef, and where the faint light of the sun filtering down made objects dim and uncertain. All was quiet here, and it was the ideal place for repose.

It had taken many years of wandering to get the loggerhead as far north as the Bahama Bank. He had let himself drift along, and here he was at last in the core of the great Florida Stream, going to the northward at a rate which would have astonished him very much had he known its velocity. It is doubtful even if he had known it that he would have made any effort to either stem it or get clear, for he now had the reposeful habit strong in his nature, and he took things as they came. Nothing had as yet caused him the slightest harm, and there was no reason to get excited at anything. Life was pleasant. Effort was useless.

He would float along upon the bright blue surface of the warm stream and poke his head up into the clear sweet air and sunshine. It was enough. The life of albicore or dolphin was not for him. Theirs was all effort, savage strife, and a sudden death. He might lie and ponder at their lot with his head slightly raised and his paddles at rest, but while he might notice them in their desperate play he had a supreme contempt for them all. He had already lived as long as three generations of them, and they had done nothing save fight and slay.

As he floated away he soon found many of his old acquaintances were disappearing. The savage amber-jack and fat sunfish would pass him now and then, but they were always heading south. Only his companions, the flying fish, seemed to care as little as he for their whereabouts. The flying fish were not afraid of him, and they were his friends. He held them in high disdain for their cowardice, for they were always timorous and ready for flight at the first sign of an approaching fish, and it was more contempt than pity he had for those who were caught. The more fortunate he would watch with languid interest.

The lives of all were so full of strife they were eminently unsuccessful from his point of view, and it was only because the little flyers were so pretty when they whirled upward from the blue water and with whirring wings sailed away, that he liked them better than the rest. They always knew where the best Gulf weed was to be had and never disputed his claim to the largest share of any that he found. It was manifest to him that he was a superior being, quite above the rest of his fellows, and with the instinctive feeling common to all animals, he felt that this superiority was a special gift from the great power which he felt ruled his destiny. His dull brain worked slowly. There was no quickening of his sluggish circulation to brighten his wits.

It was quite a fortnight after leaving the Bahama Bank that he began to notice that the water about him was not quite so blue as before and that there was a chill in it which he did not like. It stirred him to action and he began paddling westward after the setting sun. The next day a low shore appeared on the horizon with a bright sand beach shining like a white band between the dark line of hammock and the sparkling sea. He headed for it, thinking to haul out a little while and sun himself upon the hot beach, for the air was much cooler than what he had been accustomed to and the Gulf weed was scarce.

In spite of his unwieldy size the loggerhead was not slow when he once started to use his great paddles. He kept up a steady stroke with all four, his large front ones sculling him along like two oar-blades, bending at each return, and his smaller hind ones shoving him ahead with quick, jerky strokes. His head was thrust forward, and he went along a few feet below the surface like a great oval shadowy shape.