l precision, they fling the line with its heavy
pyramid sinker far out beyond the line of breakers.

There they stand. What do they think about, one wonders? But what
does any one think about when fishing? That is one of the happy
pastimes that don't require much thinking. The long ridges of
surf crumble about their knees and the sun and keen vital air
lull them into a cheerful drowse of the faculties. Do they
speculate on the never-ending fascination of the leaning walls of
water, the rhythmical melody of the rasp and hiss of the water?
Do they watch that indescribable beauty of the breaking wave, a
sight as old as humankind and yet never so described that one who
has not seen it could picture it?

The wave gathers height and speed as it moves toward the sand. It
seems to pull itself together for the last plunge. The first wave
that ever rolled up to a beach probably didn't break. It just
slid. It was only the second wave that broke--curled over in that
curious way. For our theory--which may be entirely wrong--is that
the breaking is due to the undertow of previous waves. After a
wave sprawls up on the beach, it runs swiftly back. This
receding undercurrent--you can feel it very strongly if you are
swimming just in front of a large wave about to break--digs in
beneath the advancing hill of water. It cuts away the foundations
of that hill, which naturally topples over at the crest.

The wave of water leans and hangs for a delaying instant. The
actual cascade may begin at one end and run along the length of
the ridge; it may begin at both ends and twirl inward, meeting in
the middle; it may (but very rarely) begin in the middle and work
outward. As the billow is at its height, before it combs over,
the fisherman sees the sunlight gleaming through it--an ecstasy
of perfect lucid green, with the glimmer of yellow sand behind.
Then, for a brief moment--so brief that the details can never be
memorized--he sees a clear crystal screen of water falling
forward. Another instant, and it is all a boil of snowy suds
seething about his legs. He may watch it a thousand times, a
million times; it will never be old, never wholly familiar.
Colour varies from hour to hour, from day to day. Sometimes blue
or violet, sometimes green-olive or gray. The backwash tugs at
his boots, hollowing out little channels under his feet. The sun
wraps him round like a mantle; the salt crusts and thickens in
his hair. And then, when he has forgotten