The small yacht sailing, spinnaker winged out, day and night, for many
days and nights. The saturnalia of destruction--splendid description of
the bonita--by the hundreds of thousands. The great hunting. The miles
wide swatch of destruction. The gunies, bosuns, frigate birds, etc.,
increasing--tens of thousands. All after flying fish. When flying fish
come aboard, they, too, rush to catch them. Saturnalia of killing gets
on their nerves. Birds break wings against rigging, fall overboard,
torn to pieces by bonita and attacked from above by their fluttering
kind--frigate birds, bosuns, etc. Native sailors catch bonita to eat
raw--as haul in, caught-bonita are attacked by their fellows. Sailors
catch a shark--cut it clean open, none of its parts left. Beating heart
in a man’s hand--shark heaved overboard, swims and swims, snapping with
jaws as the bonita hosts flit by in the sun-flooded brine--beating
heart shock to Grunya. Finally the madness of the tropic sun, etc. Here
begin to shoot birds, fish, etc., with small automatic rifle, and she
looks up and applauds. All killed or injured are immediately eaten by
others. Once the Irish terrier goes overboard and is torn to pieces
by bonita. Once, her scarf, red, struck and dragged down, etc., etc.
Nothing can escape.
And so the end, tragic foredoomed, as they go ashore, sharks snap at
their oar blades. And on the beach, a school of small fish, discovered,
rush upon the beach. They wade ashore through this silvery surf of
perished life, and find--Dragomiloff dying.