"You see," said Nance, in her decisive little way, "many of our Sark men
won't learn to swim. They think it's mistrusting God. But that seems to
me foolish. Every man who goes down to the sea ought to be able to
swim--besides, it's terribly nice."

"Yes, surely, Sark men ought to be able to swim, and they have certainly
no lack of opportunity. But it's a dangerous coast for those who don't
know it. Look at that now," and he nodded to the foaming race in front
of them, between Brenière and a gaunt rocky peak which rose like a
mountain-top out of the lonely sea. "Why, it must be running five or six
miles an hour."

From where they sat the sea seemed perfectly calm, a level plain of
deepest blue, with pale green streaks under the rocks and dark purple
patches further out, its surface just furrowed with tiny wind-ripples,
and underneath, a long slow heave like the breathings of the spirit of
the deep. But, smooth as the blue plain seemed, wave met rock with roar
and turmoil, and between that outlying peak and the shore the waters
tore and foamed with wild white crests--tumbling green ridges that were
never two seconds the same. While all along the great black base of the
peak the white waves rushed like mighty rockets, flinging long white
arms up its ragged sides and crashing together at the end in dazzling
bursts of foam.

"Wonderful!" said Gard. "I've lain here for hours watching it."

"I've swum it," said Nance quietly.

"So've I," said Bernel.