Nobody tries to
use toilet soap in sea-water more than once.
And surf-bathing! If there is a bigger swindle than surf-bathing,
the United States Postal authorities haven't heard of it yet. It is
all very well for the women. They can hang on to the ropes and
squeal at the big waves and have a perfectly lovely time. Some of
the really daring ones crouch down till they actually get their
shoulder-blades wet. You have to see that for yourself to believe
it, but it is as true as I am sitting here. They do so - some of
them. But good land! There's no swimming in surf-bathing, no fun
for a man. The water is all bouncing up and down. One second it
is over head and hands, and the next second it is about to your
knees, with a malicious undertow tickling your feet and tugging at
your ankles; and growling: "Aw, you think you're some, don't you?
Yes. Well, for half a cent wouldn't take you out and drown you,." And
I don't like the looks of that boat patrolling up and down between
the ropes and the raft. It is too suggestive, too like the skeleton
at the banquet, too blunt a reminder that maybe what the undertow
growls is not all a bluff.
Another drawback to the ocean as a swimming-hole is that the
distances are all wrong. If you want to go to the other side of the
"crick" you must take a steamboat.
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