In the mud of their complacently perpetuated barnyard pond, they assert that no bright-browed, bright-apparelled shining figures can be outside of fairy books, old histories, and ancient superstitions.Never having seen the stars, they deny the stars.Never having glimpsed the shining ways nor the mortals that tread them, they deny the existence of the shinning ways as well as the existence of the high-bright mortals who adventure along the shining ways.The narrow pupils of their eyes the centre of the universe, they image the universe in terms of themselves, of their meagre personalities make pitiful yardsticks with which to measure the high-bright souls, saying: "Thus long are all souls, and no longer; it is impossible that there should exist greater-statured souls than we are, and our gods know that we are great of stature."But all, or nearly all on the beach, forgave Ida Barton her suit and form when she took the water.A touch of her hand on her husband's arm, indication and challenge in her laughing face, and the two ran as one for half a dozen paces and leapt as one from the hard-wet sand of the beach, their bodies describing flat arches of flight ere the water was entered.
There are two surfs at Waikiki: the big, bearded man surf that roars far out beyond the diving-stage; the smaller, gentler, wahine, or woman, surf that breaks upon the shore itself.Here is a great shallowness, where one may wade a hundred or several hundred feet to get beyond depth.Yet, with a good surf on outside, the wahine surf can break three or four feet, so that, close in against the shore, the hard-sand bottom may be three feet or three inches under the welter of surface foam.To dive from the beach into this, to fly into the air off racing feet, turn in mid- flight so thatheels are up and head is down, and, so to enter the water head-first, requires wisdom of waves, timing of waves, and a trained deftness in entering such unstable depths of water with pretty, unapprehensive, head- first cleavage, while at the same time ****** the shallowest possible of dives.
It is a sweet, and pretty, and daring trick, not learned in a day, nor learned at all without many a milder bump on the bottom or close shave of fractured skull or broken neck.Here, on the spot where the Bartons so beautifully dived, two days before a Stanford track athlete had broken his neck.His had been an error in timing the rise and subsidence of a wahine wave.
"A professional," Mrs.Hanley Black sneered to her husband at Ida Barton's feat.
"Some vaudeville tank girl," was one of the similar remarks with which the women in the shade complacently reassured one another-- finding, by way of the weird mental processes of self-illusion, a great satisfaction in the money caste-distinction between one who worked for what she ate and themselves who did not work for what they ate.
It was a day of heavy surf on Waikiki.In the wahine surf it was boisterous enough for good swimmers.But out beyond, in the kanaka, or man, surf, no one ventured.Not that the score or more of young surf- riders loafing on the beach could not venture there, or were afraid to venture there; but because their biggest outrigger canoes would have been swamped, and their surf-boards would have been overwhelmed in the too- immense over-topple and down-fall of the thundering monsters.They themselves, most of them, could have swum, for man can swim through breakers which canoes and surf-boards cannot surmount; but to ride the backs of the waves, rise out of the foam to stand full length in the air above, and with heels winged with the swiftness of horses to fly shoreward, was what made sport for them and brought them out from Honolulu to Waikiki.
The captain of Number Nine canoe, himself a charter member of the Outrigger and a many-times medallist in long-distance swimming, had missed seeing the Bartons take the water, and first glimpsed them beyondthe last festoon of bathers clinging to the life-lines.From then on, from his vantage of the upstairs lanai, he kept his eyes on them.When they continued out past the steel diving-stage where a few of the hardiest divers disported, he muttered vexedly under his breath "damned malahinis!"Now malahini means new-comer, tender-foot; and, despite the prettiness of their stroke, he knew that none except malahinis would venture into the racing channel beyond the diving-stage.Hence the vexation of the captain of Number Nine.He descended to the beach, with a low word here and there picked a crew of the strongest surfers, and returned to the lanai with a pair of binoculars.Quite casually, the crew, six of them, carried Number Nine to the water's edge, saw paddles and everything in order for a quick launching, and lolled about carelessly on the sand.They were guilty of not advertising that anything untoward was afoot, although they did steal glances up to their captain straining through the binoculars.
