Movie Makers (Jan-May 1928)

From the Arcturus Adventure by William Beebe, with Permisson of G. P. Putnam's Sons. AN ISLAND SEA The Saline Crater Lake in the Center of Tower Island in the tropic sun, divided by a fresh water stream that was in turn shaded by two tall palms. In the shadow of these were barely discernible the fallen-in roofs of two tumble-down shacks, built evidently by forgotten treasure seekers. Ages ago, on that white sandy stretch before us, pirates had careened their ships, while their mates had entrenched chests of pearls and precious stones. The history of Cocos in the days of the Jolly Roger and the "gentlemen of the sea" is well known. But it is certainly well substantiated by the records found on these astounding shores. Everywhere, carved in rocks, and even on tree trunks, is found the mute testimony of their visits. One finds graven in granite such legends as: "Bruce James, 1787, seaman on 'Ye Hispanola'," then a skull and cross bones and a nondescript lettering "His Mark." And here abound swarms of truly fit companions to the rovers of the Main and here, I believe, is in progress one of the greatest submarine conflicts. Everywhere in sight lurk the wolves of the sea — huge, malevolent sharks. It was impossible to fish. Not that fish were lacking but it was a ten to one shot that once hooked, a trophy could be brought whole into the launch. Sharks would appear, as if by magic, from every direction. By virtue of the clarity of the water, they could be seen swarming many fathoms below. A snap of evil jaws and one would reel in merely the head of an amber jack or a tuna as a grim warning of what would occur should one chance to tumble Eighty into the lovely sapphire depths. But we had our revenge on the vindictive hunger that roamed beneath these beautiful seas. I hooked a big fish. He fought hard, but of a sudden the line went dead. I hauled in the remaining fragments of a great blue tuna. "We'll fix 'em," said Charley, and handed me a forty-five calibre pistol, taking the rod. The head of the tuna dangled at the end of my line. Below us, dozens of grey monsters were milling about. Charley lowered the tuna head until it was directly above them. One ten footer drove for it and the bait was pulled away. Circling warily, he came up for it again, only to have it snatched almost from his snapping jaws. This time he came for it with a furious rush, head on, not turning over — as the scientists claim he should — while Charley raised the bait until it was just under water. On came the maddened shark and, as his blunt nose rose partly out of water five or six feet from the boat, I discharged the pistol straight into his ugly skull. Dead, and with blood streaming from his head, he sank slowly, turning over and over. In thirty seconds, before he disappeared from view, it seemed as if every shark in the world, attracted by the gore, had rushed to that spot. The water boiled; he was devoured. In a flash he ceased to be utterly. Gorged, rent to shreds, mangled and swallowed by his mates. This was repeated eleven times. * * * Well named by the old Spaniards were these sea-girt rocks, "Las Islas Encantadas," the "Enchanted Isles." BARCLAY H. WARBURTON, JR. They are, and the enchantment lies within them. From whence did they come? What are they? The mountain tops of an ill-fated lost Atlantis? Who knows? One sees but these desolate great fortresses of rock, barren, raw, poking ungainly heads into the air from depths impossible of conception. GALAPAGOS ! We cruised slowly along in mirror-like water between two of the islands. The sun rose over the port quarter, breaking the combined mist and smoke which rose from lava, flowing red hot and burning five miles or more into the sea. I got good films of them. Away from the hot water, a curious sea lion poked his head inquiringly out as if to determine what adventurous soul was disturbing the sanctity of his islands. With an apologetic cough he was gone.