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TWENTY YEARS UNDER THE SEA
Fumbling for something to write on, I found the forgotten weather report in my shirt pocket, now wet and soggy, and made a few notes on the back of it.
At last, the wind died down and the light increased until we could see the outlines of the desolate shore.
Squatting in a dismal row near the remains of the shattered long boat was the crew of the Jules Verne looking out at their vessel, still afloat on the now tranquil bay. Later I heard their story. Waist deep in the rushing waters they had clung to the small palmetto trees and somehow had gone through that terrible night. One of the coloured crew, a stuttering 250 pound giant named McGregor, had cried out in the night, "Goo-Goo-Goo-Good Lord, I'm going. — De whole earth sinkin,.,, These hardy natives had weathered fierce storms before, but this one was heart-breaking, killing. The captain of the boat, one of the finest men I have ever known, died later, a broken man.
Aside from minor damage to decks and rigging, our vessels and equipment were not hurt in the least. Even the light was still burning under the colour filters. The camera men had nursed this delicate mechanism throughout the storm.
An hour later I was at the lagoon a mile and a half distant, heavy-hearted. As I approached I saw the camp had been swept entirely away. Only a few figures moved about. Fearfully, I ran up the beach to investigate. Meeting one of the fellows — I couldn't
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THE AUTHOR DESCENDING THE WITH HIS LITTLE DAUGHTER. "CAPTAIN" SY