We stand in awe at the grandeur of the mountains, thrusting their
snowcapped summits into the clouds, and it is indeed a glorious sight;
but the ocean, with its ceaseless motion, its wonderful rising and
falling of the tides, and its constant and mysterious moaning, is not
to be outdone in sublimity, and offers a keen delight to the lover of
nature. Its sands and waters are ever changing. Its rugged coast, with
rocks scattered in wild profusion, is one of the most interesting
spots in all the world.
A piece of wreckage is thrown upon the beach, and you wonder what dire
disaster happened far out at sea, and if the rest of the ship went to
the bottom with all on board. But take it home, let it dry in the sun,
then place it on your open grate fire, and as you watch the iridescent
blaze curl up the chimney, dream dreams, and weave strange fancies in
the light of your driftwood fire.
A day at the seashore is one of pleasure, a delightful change from
woods and uplands to rocks and rushing waters. Some prefer the smooth
stretch of sandy beach, where one may lie at luxurious ease in the
warm sand, and listen to the waves lapping along shore, or, discarding
shoes and stockings, wade out until the white-capped waves, like
policemen, drive you back from encroaching upon old Neptune's domain.
But we prefer the rocky cliffs, combined with the sandy beach, and
such a place is Land's End, near the Golden Gate, in San Francisco.
We started down the steep incline, strewn with jagged rocks, to follow
the narrow path along the cliffs. But our outing was marred by meeting
two men toiling up the path along the narrow way, carrying an
unfortunate sightseer who had ventured too near the edge of the cliff
and fallen into the ocean. Only the prompt action of a friend who
scrambled down the rocks at the risk of his life saved him from a
watery grave. His resuscitation must have been painful, judging by his
agonizing groans, but the ambulance officers had been summoned and
the unfortunate sufferer was cared for at the hospital.
The incident served to make us more careful, and at the narrowest
place in the path we used the utmost caution, for the rocks below rose
up like dragon's teeth, ready to impale us if we should make a false
step--and that white drawn face haunted us like a specter.
The path along the ocean is a narrow and tortuous one, running about
halfway between the water and the top of the cliff. Great granite
rocks rise up like giants to dispute our passage, but by numerous
twistings the path skirts their base, or wriggles snakelike over the
top.
[Illustration: THEY HAVE STOOD THE STORMS OF CENTURIES]
Hundreds of feet below, the waves come rolling in from the ocean,
dashing with a giant's fury against the rocks, and shattering
themselves into white spray that is tossed high in air, like thousands
of white fingers seeking to clutch the granite barrier. Then receding
like a roaring lion baffled of its prey, it gathers new strength, and
flings itself again and again against the rocks, like a gladiator
striving for the mastery.
Here, in a massive pile of rocks, is a deep, dark cavern, evidently
worn by the action of the waves that have pounded against it for
centuries. Looking out upon the ocean, we see a wave mightier than all
the others sweeping onward, as if challenging the rocks to mortal
combat, its mighty curving crest white and seething with foam, hissing
like a serpent. On it comes, sweeping over half-submerged rocks,
growling in its fury, sublime in its towering majesty, awful in its
giant's strength.
Nearing the rocks, it seems to hang suspended for a moment, then hurls
itself as from a catapult against the barrier with a sound like
thunder, filling the cavern to its utmost, causing the ground to
fairly tremble with the impact, and sending the white spray high up
the face of the cliff, to be scattered like chaff before the breeze.
And the old rock that has stood the storms of ages, looks down at its
beaten and broken enemy, swirling, seething, and snarling at its
feet, and fairly laughs at its puny efforts.
[Illustration: SEA GULL ROCK]
Here we venture to a place that seems accessible in order to procure a
photograph. It was a foolhardy undertaking, and we knew it. But
fortune favored us, and the much-desired picture was secured. But thus
will men gamble with death to gratify a whim, for a false step or
sudden vertigo would have sent us crashing on to the jagged rocks
below.
Overhead the sea gulls beat the air on tireless wings, or skim close
to the water, intent upon their ceaseless search for food. Far out the
lighthouse stands anchored to the rocks, the waves dashing against it,
as if to tear it from its firm foundation. But it defies them all, and
sends the cheery beacon light over the waters, to guide the stately
ships between the portals of the Golden Gate.
Directly opposite, the white buildings of Point Bonita stand out
against the green of the hills; strongly fortified, and ready at all
times to defend the entrance to San Francisco Bay against warlike
intruders.
Two hardy fishermen have ventured out at low tide to a large rock and
are casting their lines into the boiling waters for rock-cod or
porgies, while the Italian fishing boats, with their queer striped
sails, form a striking contrast to the massive steamboats, with smoke
trailing from their twin funnels, that are outward bound for China or
Japan.
Farther on, where the rocks descend to the sea level, we roam the
beach and gather sea shells, starfish, and sea urchins; and by a
shallow pool we stop to watch the scarlet fringes of the sea anemones,
waving back and forth with the action of the tide. Barnacles cover the
top of every rock that the tide reaches, and the long, blackish,
snakelike seaweed is strewn along the beach.
We watch the tide come creeping in, each succeeding wave running a
little farther up the beach and driving us back with relentless energy
from its rightful possessions.
The sun sinks down in golden splendor behind the ocean's rim, leaving
a track of molten gold that tips as with a halo the edges of the
dancing waves. We turn our faces homeward, with a last, lingering look
at the majestic expanse of blue rolling waters, and ever in our ears
sounds the ceaseless moaning of the ocean.
[Illustration]