A MURDEROUS GRIP
Bert was having his first glimpse of the sea since he started on his
trip. He was weary of the land which he had traversed so swiftly and
steadily for two weeks past. The impression stamped upon his brain was
that of an endless ribbon of road, between whose edges his motorcycle
had sped along, until he seemed like a living embodiment of perpetual
motion. That ribbon had commenced to unwind at the eastern end of the
continent, and there were still a good many miles to be reeled off
before the race was ended. But now, as he sat on the veranda of the
beach hotel facing the sea whose surf broke on the sands a hundred feet
away, he could feel his weariness dropping away like a cast-off garment.
The tang of the ocean was a tonic that filled him with new life, and his
nostrils dilated as they drew in great draughts of the salt air.
"Ponce de Leon was wrong when he looked for the elixir of life in a
fountain," he thought to himself. "He should have sought for it in the
sea."
Before him stretched the mighty Pacific, its crested waves glittering in
the sun. Fishing vessels and coasting craft flashed their white sails
near the shore, while, far out on the horizon, he could see the trail
of smoke that followed in the wake of a liner. Great billows burst into
spray on the beach, and the diapason of the surf reverberated in his
ears like rich organ music. He drank it all in thirstily, as though
storing up inspiration for the completion of his task.
A man sitting near by looked at him with a quizzical smile, frankly
interested by Bert's absorption in the scene before him. With easy
good-fellowship, he remarked:
"You seem to be getting a lot of pleasure out of the view."
"I am," replied Bert promptly; "I can't get enough of it."
"There are plenty of people who have got enough of it," he observed
drily, "your humble servant among the number."
Bert scented a story, but repressed any sign of curiosity.
"It's the infinite variety that appeals to me," he said. "The sea is
full of wonders."
"And tragedies," supplemented the other.
He settled back in his chair and lighted a fresh cigar. As he struck
the match, Bert noticed that his right hand was horribly scarred and
disfigured. It looked as though it had been drawn through a harrow whose
teeth had bitten deep. Great livid weals crossed each other on the back,
and two of the fingers were gone. And Bert noted that, although his
face and frame indicated that he was not more than thirty years old, his
hair was snowy white.
"Of course, that's true," said Bert, reverting to the stranger's last
remark; "storms and shipwrecks and typhoons and tidal waves are things
that have to be reckoned with."
"Yes," was the reply, "but I wasn't thinking especially of these.
They're common enough and terrible enough. What I had in mind was the
individual tragedies that are happening all the time, and of which not
one in a hundred ever hears."
"Do you see this hair of mine?" he asked, removing his hat. "One day at
noon it was as dark as yours. At three o'clock on that same day it was
like this."
He paused a moment, as though battling with some fearful recollection.
"I don't know how familiar you may be with the Pacific," he resumed,
"but on this coast there is every variety of monster that you can find
in any other ocean, and usually of a fiercer and larger type. Nowhere do
you find such man-eating sharks or such malignant devil-fish. The sharks
don't come near enough to the shore to bother us much. But it's safe to
say that within half a mile from here, there are gigantic squids, with
tentacles from twelve to twenty feet long. More than one luckless
swimmer, venturing out too far, has been dragged down by them, and there
are instances where they have picked a man out of a fishing boat. If
those tentacles ever get you in their murderous grip, it's all over with
you.
"Then, too, we have what is called the 'smotherer,' something like a
monstrous ray, that spreads itself out over its prey and forces it down
in the mud at the bottom, until it is smothered to death. It's a terror
to divers, and they fear it more than they do the shark.
"But these perils are well known and can be guarded against. If I'd got
into any trouble with them, it would probably have been largely my own
fault. But it is the 'unexpected that happens,' and the thing that
marked me for life was something not much bigger than my fist.
"Have you ever seen an abalone? No? Well, it's a kind of shellfish
that's common on this coast. It has one shell and that a very beautiful
one, so that it is in considerable demand. The inside of it is like
mother of pearl and there are little swellings on it called 'blisters,'
that gleam with all the colors of the rainbow. It's a favorite sport
here to get up 'abalone parties,' just as you fellows in the East go
crabbing. Only, instead of getting after them with a net, we use a
crowbar. Queer kind of fishing, isn't it?"
"I should say it was," smiled Bert.
"Well, you see, it's this way. The body of the abalone is a mass of
muscle that has tremendous strength. It is so powerful, that the natives
of the South Sea Islands use the abalones to catch sharks with. Fact.
They fasten a chain to the abalone, and it swims out and attaches itself
to the under side of a shark. Then they pull it in, and no matter how
hard the shark struggles and threshes about, it has to come. The abalone
would be torn to pieces before it would let go. It's the bulldog of the
shellfish tribe, and a harpoon wouldn't hold the shark more securely.
"On the coast, here, they fasten themselves to the rocks, and as these
are usually covered at high tide, you have to hunt them when the tide is
low. You wade out among the rocks until you catch sight of an abalone.
Then you insert the crowbar between the shell and the rock. Only the
enormous leverage this gives enables you to pry it off. The strongest
man on earth couldn't pull it away with his bare hands.
"Usually, we went in parties, and there was a good deal of rivalry as to
who would get the largest and finest shells. I forgot to say that,
besides the shells themselves, once in a while you can find a pearl of
considerable value and great beauty. This occurs so seldom, however,
that it is always a red-letter day when you have such a bit of luck.
"One day, a friend had arranged to go abalone hunting with me, but just
as we were getting ready to start out, a telegram called him away from
town, on important business. It would have been the luckiest thing that
ever happened to me if I had got a telegram too. We were both much
disappointed, as on that day we were going to try a new place, where we
had a 'hunch' that we would make a good haul.
"The weather was so fine and I had my mind so set upon the trip, that I
determined to go it alone. The tide that day would be at low water mark
at about twelve o'clock. I threw a lunch together, got out my bag and
crowbar and started.
"A tramp of a couple of miles down the beach brought me to the place we
had in mind. It was a desolate stretch of shore, with no houses in sight
except an occasional fisherman's shack, and the crowds that frequented
the other beaches had left this severely alone. It was this, added to
the fact that an unusual number of rocks was visible at low tide, that
had made us fix on it as a promising location.
"The day was bright and clear and the sea had never appeared so
beautiful. Looked to me, I imagine, a good deal as it did to you just
now. It has never seemed beautiful to me since.
"The tide was on the ebb, but had not yet run out fully, and I had to
wait perhaps half an hour before the rocks were uncovered enough to
permit me to see the abalones in their hiding places. I spent the time
lying lazily on the sand with half shut eyelids, and basking in the
inexpressible charm of sea and sky. I never dreamed of the horror the
scene would inspire in me a little later on. There was a long swell but
little surf that day, and there was nothing cruel in the way the waves
danced in the sunlight and came gliding up, with an air that was almost
caressing, to where I lay stretched out at perfect peace with myself and
the world.
"Soon the ebb had reached its limit and there was that momentary
hesitation before the tide, as though it had forgotten something and
were coming back for it, began to flow in. Now was the time, if I wanted
to fill the sack that I had brought along with me to hold my spoil. I
remember chuckling to myself, as I looked around and saw that there was
not a soul in sight. If this should prove the rich hunting ground I
believed it to be, I would have first choice of the finest specimens.
"I slung the bag over my shoulder and holding the crowbar in my left
hand, began to make my way out to the rocks. I had stripped off my outer
clothing, and was in the swimming suit that I wore underneath. The water
was deliciously refreshing, after the sun bath I had been enjoying, and
I went leisurely along until I came to where the rocks were thickest.
The slope was very gradual, and, by the time I got among them, I was
some distance from the shore. Then I became alert and alive, and
buckled down to my work.
"My friend and I had made no mistake. The rocks were full of abalones
and my bag was soon filling rapidly. I exulted in the thought of the
virgin field that we too would exploit together.
"But, although the shells were numerous and unusually fine in their
markings, I could not find any that contained a pearl. That was the one
thing necessary to make my day a perfect success. I began to hustle now,
as the tide was beginning to come in strongly, and before long the
rising waters would cover the rocks.
"Suddenly, I saw under the green surface a large abalone with its shell
gaping widely. And my heart gave a jubilant leap as I saw a large pearl
just within the edge of the shell. How I came to do such a fool thing I
don't know, but, with a shout, I reached out my hand to grasp it. I
slipped as I did so, and, in trying to steady myself, the crowbar flew
out of my left hand and fell several feet away. And just then the shell
began to tighten. I tried to withdraw my hand, but it was too late. That
closing shell held it against the rock as though in an iron clamp.
"A sweat broke out all over me and icy chills chased themselves up and
down my spine. I pulled with all my might, but the shell, as though in
mockery, closed tighter. The feeling of that clammy mass of gristle and
muscle against the flesh filled me with a sick loathing that, for the
moment, overbore the pain of my crushed hand. So, I imagine, a man might
feel in the slimy folds of a boa constrictor.
"Instinctively, I raised my other hand, as if to insert the crowbar.
Then I realized that it had fallen from my hand. I could see where it
lay between two rocks, not six feet away. Six feet! It might as well
have been six miles.
"I was trapped. The full horror of my situation burst upon me. I was
alone, held fast by that powerful shell that recognized me as an enemy
and would never relax of its own accord. _And the tide was coming in._
"In a fury of rage and terror, I struck at the abalone with my left hand
while with all my strength I tried to tear away my right. But I could
have as soon succeeded in pulling it from beneath a triphammer. There
were gaping rents in the flesh opened by my struggles and I could see my
blood mingling with the green water.
"You have heard of bears and lynxes caught in traps who have chewed at
their imprisoned leg until they left it behind them and hobbled away,
maimed and bleeding, but free. I swear to you that I would have done the
same with that hand of mine, if I had been able.
"I thought of a woodsman whom I knew, who had been caught by a falling
tree that had crushed his foot. He knew that if he stayed there that
night, the wolves would get him. His axe was within reach and he
deliberately chopped off his foot. I didn't have even that chance. I was
in my bathing suit and my knife was in the clothes left on the shore.
"And all this time the cruel, treacherous sea was coming in and the tide
was mounting higher and higher. It purled about me softly, gently, like
a cat playing with a mouse. I beat at it angrily with my left hand and
it seemed to laugh. It felt sure of me and could afford to be indulgent.
It was already above my waist and my knowledge of the coast told me that
when it reached the flood it would be ten feet deep at the place where I
stood.
"I looked wildly around, in the hope of seeing some one on the shore.
But it was absolutely deserted. A little while before, I had been
gloating over the fact that I was alone and could have a monopoly of the
hunting. Now I would have given all I had in the world for the sight of
a human face. I shouted until I was hoarse, but no one came. Far out at
sea, I could glimpse dimly the sails of a vessel. I waved my free hand
desperately, but I knew at the time that it was futile. I was a mere
speck to any one on board, and even if they trained strong glasses on me
they would have thought it nothing but the frolicsome antics of a
bather.
"Now the water was up to my armpits. The thought came to me that if I
should keep perfectly quiet, the abalone might think his danger gone and
loosen his grip. But, though I nearly went crazy with the terrible
strain of keeping still, when every impulse was to leap and yell, the
cunning creature never relaxed that murderous clutch.
"Then I lost all control of myself. It wasn't the thought of death
itself. I could, I think, have steeled myself to that. But it was the
horrible mode of death. To be young and strong and twenty, and to die
there, slowly and inexorably, while six feet away was a certain means of
rescue!
"The water had reached my neck. My overstrung nerves gave way. I tugged
wildly at my bleeding hand. I raved and wept. I think I must have grown
delirious. I dimly remember babbling to the iron bar that I could see
lying there so serenely in the transparent water. I coaxed it, wheedled
it, cajoled it, begged it to come to me, and, when it refused, I cursed
it. The waves were breaking over me and I was choking. The spray was in
my eyes and ears. I thought I heard a shouting, the sound of oars. Then
a great blackness settled down upon me and I knew nothing more.
"When next I came to consciousness, I was in a hospital, where I had
been for two months with brain fever. They had had to take off two
fingers, and barely saved the rest of the hand. They wouldn't let me see
a mirror until they had prepared me for the change in my appearance.
"I learned then the story of my rescue. A party had come around a bend
of the shore when I was at my last gasp. They caught sight of my hand
just above the water. They made for me at once and tried to pull me into
the boat. Then they saw my plight, and, with a marlinspike, pried the
abalone loose. They tell me that my bleeding fingers had stiffened
around the pearl, and they could scarcely get it away from me. They
asked me afterward if I cared to see it, but I hated it so bitterly that
I refused to look at it. It had been bought at too high a price.
"And now," he concluded, "do you wonder that I dread that sleek and
crawling monster that I call the sea?"
Bert drew a long breath.
"No," he said, and there was a world of sympathy and understanding in
his tone, "I don't."