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Chapters (51)
  1. Introduction by Michael Bronski
  2. BEGINNING
  3. II
  4. III
  5. IV
  6. V
  7. VI
  8. VII
  9. VIII
  10. IX
  11. X
  12. XI
  13. XII
  14. XIII
  15. MIDDLE
  16. II
  17. III
  18. IV
  19. V
  20. VI
  21. VII
  22. VIII
  23. IX
  24. X
  25. XI
  26. XII
  27. XIII
  28. XIV
  29. XV
  30. XVI
  31. XVII
  32. XVIII
  33. XIX
  34. XX
  35. END
  36. II
  37. III
  38. IV
  39. V
  40. VI
  41. VII
  42. VIII
  43. IX
  44. X
  45. XI
  46. XII
  47. XIII
  48. XIV
  49. XV
  50. XVI
  51. About the Author

These and other fantasies, aimless now, were to be given direction, if not purpose, when the Haumans moved into Dune House the next afternoon.

XII

XII

The heaving breast of the sea was like a billowy bed, pulling him down to ineffable luxurious sleep. In spite of the struggle to keep afloat, and the danger, he felt a longing to go far out—far, farther, past any possibility of return. His wonderful battle with the buffeting rollers, and the sensual falling sensation they constantly provided, seemed to him the only intoxication he had had in many months, the only good losing of himself. . . . You sea! I resign myself to you also—I guess what you mean. . . .

He was swimming alone; and that, somehow, added to the lulling exquisite pleasure. He was the more at one with the sea because no one was beside him; the solid shore counted for nothing, nor did anyone on it. He gave himself up to the sea, as if he and it were in lusty intimate communion, and allowed himself to be drawn on and on. . . . Sea of the brine of life! sea of unshovell’d yet always-ready graves. . . .

He plunged through the sharp stinging crest of a breaker and swept down and up the long downward swell to the top again; momentarily he rode high there, then dropped into the green deep trough as the wave he had quitted rolled on toward the beach and the next one reared up. Actually, there was little swimming he could do; it was a matter mostly of staying afloat and riding the waves, which drew him out farther and farther. When he turned to go back, he felt beneath him the strong seaward pull even more; during the last fifty feet he had to work fast to overcome it. Reaching the crest of the final on-rushing breaker, he was yanked rapidly landward and cast up on the beach in a thundering crash of water and pebbles. Amid the boil of the hissing swirling surf, John Grandin got to his feet.

Ethel lay in the sand under the umbrella. It was early; besides Pete the lifeguard, they and the Eklunds were the only guests who had yet come down from the hotel.

As he finished drying himself, Arne Eklund left his sunshade and came across the sand with a magazine. He knelt between them, then sat back on his heels, his body perfectly erect, as if the figure itself (far more than the face and eyes) was the instrument to express superiority. His hands rested lightly on his thighs, only the fingertips touching; the highly lacquered nails glistened in the sunlight.

“Your friends aren’t coming out today?” His voice had a strangely singing quality; it had, too, a perverse good humor, as if any moment he would go into a broad burlesque of himself and thus satisfy them all.