THERE is a floating island in the sea where no explorer has set foot,
or, setting foot, has returned to tell of what he saw. Lying at our
very doors, in the direct path of every steamer from the Gulf of Mexico
to Europe, it is less known than is the frozen pole. Encyclopedias pass
over it lightly; atlases dismiss it with but a slight mention; maps
do not attempt to portray its ever-shifting outlines; even the Sunday
newspapers, so keen to grasp everything of interest, ignore it.
But on the decks of great ships in the long watches of the night, when
the trade-wind snores through the rigging and the waves purr about the
bows, the sailor tells strange tales of the spot where ruined ships,
raked derelict from all the square miles of ocean, form a great
island, ever changing, ever wasting, yet ever lasting; where, in the
ballroom of the Atlantic, draped round with encircling weed, they drone
away their lives, balancing slowly in a mighty tourbillion to the
rhythm of the Gulf Stream.
Fanciful? Sailors’ tales? Stories fit only for the marines? Perhaps!
Yet be not too sure! Jack Tar, slow of speech, fearful of ridicule,
knows more of the sea than he will tell to the newspapers. Perhaps more
than one has drifted to the isle of dead ships, and escaped only to be
disbelieved in the maelstroms that await him in all the seaports of the
world.
Facts are facts, none the less because passed on only by word of mouth,
and this tale, based on matter gleaned beneath the tropic stars, may be
truer than men are wont to think. Remember Longfellow’s words:
“Wouldst thou,” thus the steersman answered,
“Learn the secret of the sea?
Only those that brave its dangers
Comprehend its mystery.”