Confessions of a Beachcomber - General Tiki

K Kailuageoff Member Honolulu Lounge,Lewes, DE Joined: Mar 27, 2002 Posts: 1506	K Kailuageoff Posted posted on Thu, Jun 5, 2003 7:30 AM page 48 -- "When there are eight or ten islands and islets within an afternoon's sail, and miles of mainland beach to police, variety lends her charms to the pursuit of the Beachcomber. Landing in one of the unfrequented coves, he knows not what winds and the tides may have spread out for inspection and acceptance. Perhaps only an odd coconut from the Solomon Islands, its husk riddled by cobra and zoned with barnacles. The germ of life may yet be there. To plant the nut above high-water mark is an obvious duty. Perhaps there is a paddle, with rude tracery on the handle, from the New Hebrides, part of a Fijian canoe that has been bundled over the Barrier, a wooden spoon such as kanakas use, or the dusky globe of an incandescent lamp that has glowed out its life in the state room of some ocean liner, or a broom of Japanese make, a coal basket, a "fender", a tiger nautilus shell, an oar or a rudder, a tiller, a bottle cast away far out from land to determine the strength and direction of ocean currents, the spinnaker boom of a yacht, the jib boom of a staunch cutter. Once there was a goodly hammer cemented by the head fast upright on a flat rock, and again the stand of a grindstone, and a trestle, high and elaborately stayed. Cases invariably and disappointingly empty come and go, planks of strange timber, blocks from a tall ship. A huge black beacon waddled along, dragging a reluctant mass of iron at the end of its chain cable, followed by a roughly built "flatty" and and a huge log of silkwood. A jolly red buoy, weary of the formality of bowing to the swell, broke loose from a sandbank's apron-strings, bounced off in the ecstacies of liberty, romped in the surf, rolled on the beach, worked a cosy bed in the sand, and has slumbered ever since in the soothing hum of the wind, indifferent to the perplexities of mariners and the fate of ships. The gilded mast-head truck of a smart yacht, with one of her cabin rack, bespoke of recent disaster, unknown and unacounted, and a brand new oar, finished and fitted with the nattiness of a man-o-war's man, told of some wave swept deck." (editor's note: sounds like the interior decor of a favorite bar, sans tikis. KG)

page 48 -- "When there are eight or ten islands and islets within an afternoon's sail, and miles of mainland beach to police, variety lends her charms to the pursuit of the Beachcomber. Landing in one of the unfrequented coves, he knows not what winds and the tides may have spread out for inspection and acceptance. Perhaps only an odd coconut from the Solomon Islands, its husk riddled by cobra and zoned with barnacles. The germ of life may yet be there. To plant the nut above high-water mark is an obvious duty. Perhaps there is a paddle, with rude tracery on the handle, from the New Hebrides, part of a Fijian canoe that has been bundled over the Barrier, a wooden spoon such as kanakas use, or the dusky globe of an incandescent lamp that has glowed out its life in the state room of some ocean liner, or a broom of Japanese make, a coal basket, a "fender", a tiger nautilus shell, an oar or a rudder, a tiller, a bottle cast away far out from land to determine the strength and direction of ocean currents, the spinnaker boom of a yacht, the jib boom of a staunch cutter. Once there was a goodly hammer cemented by the head fast upright on a flat rock, and again the stand of a grindstone, and a trestle, high and elaborately stayed. Cases invariably and disappointingly empty come and go, planks of strange timber, blocks from a tall ship. A huge black beacon waddled along, dragging a reluctant mass of iron at the end of its chain cable, followed by a roughly built "flatty" and and a huge log of silkwood. A jolly red buoy, weary of the formality of bowing to the swell, broke loose from a sandbank's apron-strings, bounced off in the ecstacies of liberty, romped in the surf, rolled on the beach, worked a cosy bed in the sand, and has slumbered ever since in the soothing hum of the wind, indifferent to the perplexities of mariners and the fate of ships. The gilded mast-head truck of a smart yacht, with one of her cabin rack, bespoke of recent disaster, unknown and unacounted, and a brand new oar, finished and fitted with the nattiness of a man-o-war's man, told of some wave swept deck."
(editor's note: sounds like the interior decor of a favorite bar, sans tikis. KG)

Post #37435 by Kailuageoff on Thu, Jun 5, 2003 7:30 AM