So it was, next morning, when Ford came along, that I plunged into
the wonderful water for a swim of indeterminate length. Astride of
our surf-boards, or, rather, flat down upon them on our stomachs, we
paddled out through the kindergarten where the little Kanaka boys
were at play. Soon we were out in deep water where the big smokers
came roaring in. The mere struggle with them, facing them and
paddling seaward over them and through them, was sport enough in
itself. One had to have his wits about him, for it was a battle in
which mighty blows were struck, on one side, and in which cunning
was used on the other side--a struggle between insensate force and
intelligence. I soon learned a bit. When a breaker curled over my
head, for a swift instant I could see the light of day through its
emerald body; then down would go my head, and I would clutch the
board with all my strength. Then would come the blow, and to the
onlooker on shore I would be blotted out. In reality the board and
I have passed through the crest and emerged in the respite of the
other side. I should not recommend those smashing blows to an
invalid or delicate person. There is weight behind them, and the
impact of the driven water is like a sandblast. Sometimes one
passes through half a dozen combers in quick succession, and it is
just about that time that he is liable to discover new merits in the
stable land and new reasons for being on shore.

Out there in the midst of such a succession of big smoky ones, a
third man was added to our party, one Freeth. Shaking the water
from my eyes as I emerged from one wave and peered ahead to see what
the next one looked like, I saw him tearing in on the back of it,
standing upright on his board, carelessly poised, a young god
bronzed with sunburn. We went through the wave on the back of which
he rode. Ford called to him. He turned an airspring from his wave,