the third line of breakers, push through it, and are beyond the surf. One of the three, fearless of sharks, leaps into the water, mounts a billow, and rides on its foaming crest toward the shore; another and another bear him onward, and he lands, sparkling with brine. As his clothes are but a strip of cloth of the size of a pocket-handkerchief, he has no need of a change, and is ready to go to work again. The masullah boats, which ply between ship and shore when the sea is not too violent, carrying goods and passengers, pass through the surf more cautiously, as an upset would be a more serious matter to them and their freight than to the fisherman or his catamaran.
The surf, almost always grand and beautiful, becomes terrific when driven before the fierce gales of the north-west monsoon, and then breaks with a violence that forbids intercourse between ship and shore. When such gales are betokened by the barometer, a signal is hoisted at the flag-staff for all ships to weigh anchor, or slip their cables and put to sea. Sometimes, however, the warning comes too late, and the vessels are driven upon the shore. I have seen the wrecks of two ships and fifteen native vessels strewn at one time upon the
