We were dashing on, at a safe distance from the rocks, and suddenly there
was an opening in the cliffs, with a tiny bay within. Yves pulled in the
sheets a little and we sailed into the deep, clear water of the tiny
cove.
There was a small beach of rolling shingle and, beyond this, clinging
like barnacles to the rocky hillside, were a couple of decrepit houses.
Some big flakes and a fish-house were built over the water, on spidery
legs. A few children, very stolid of face and unkempt, watched our
arrival and stared at me. A man, in half-bared arms dotted about the
wrists with remnants of what they call gurry-sores, stood at the water's
edge, waiting to lend a hand. There appears to be no anchorage in this
deep hole. The sails were quickly wrapped around the masts and our
forefoot gently grated against the pebbles. Then all the men jumped out
and dragged the boat up, using some rollers.
"She'll do now," announced Sammy. "Tide's on the ebb, anyways."
There was no lack of hands to help me jump out on the little beach.
Frenchy's small boy had clambered out like a monkey and, like myself, was
an object of silent curiosity to the local urchins. The scent of fish
prevailed, of course, but it was less pronounced than at Sweetapple Cove,
very probably for the unfortunate reason that very few fish had been
caught, of late. Indeed, it was a fine drying day and yet the poor flakes
were nearly bare.
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