There was no sound but the wind and the thump of the waves falling one over the other along the beach. And there was no living thing but the sea crows. There was only the wind overhead, the march, the gray sand, and the lonely sea. Every moment the boom of the breakers grew deeper. Rio propped up a windbreak of boat hooks and nets, sunk his anchor high up on the sandy shore, and from the boat brought water keg, fry pan and fire pot. "Lord!" he said. "This is a lonely place…and I don’t know where it is."

He gathered driftwood from the beach and built a fire on the sand to warm himself and to cook his food. The heated air blew through his clothes, a pleasant feeling spread over his body, and the warmed sand grew comfortable about his chilly feet. He squatted on his hunkers like a frog, and warmed himself; his belly was crying with hunger. He listened; but there was not one pleasant sound. "O-ee!" he said. "I’d hate to leave my bones in this place."

But instead of making a clear, bright fire, the driftwood, though old and bleached and dry, gave only a feeble flame and a thin gray column of smoke which rose wavering into the air. He put another red coal from his firepot under the driftwood and stooped down to blow.

As he bent down he froze. There was a foot in the fire, with long, leathery toes smoking among the coals.

He looked up. Standing over him was a big gray man, vaguely seen through the twirling smoke, twisting this way and that in a queer, uncertain motion, towering up into the darkness, with one big foot in the driftwood fire, scowling down upon him. The Gray Man was as tall as a two-story house, black as soot and gray with ashes, a figure of monstrous pattern, half merged with the smoke, its shoulders lost in the darkness, and its eyes like foggy stars staring down.

"What are you doing on my beach?" he asked in a voice like muffled thunder.

"Captain," said Rio, "if this is your beach, you can have it! I’m leaving." Without pausing a moment he gathered up his gear, pots, pans, sails, nets, lines, oars, boat hook, bait bucket, water keg, everything that was his, tossed the armful into the boat, and with a swift thrust shoved off from shore.

Instead of rising lightly to meet it, the boat plowed deep into the incoming wave and almost turned over; the green water poured over her gunwale. Rio had no time to ponder. He leaped in, shipped his oars, threw her head up to the sea, watching the white breakers over his shoulder, and pulled hard.

The wind was now blowing a gale; the waves rolled high, and the breakers piled white on the bar. He pulled his best to hold her head up and to keep from foundering in the smother; but the boat moved with a sluggish motion, the waves broke over her sides, she sat low in the water and down at the stern. He was perplexed…the boat was queerly out of trim. He reached back for fire pot, fry pan, water keg and bait bucket to stow forward to keep her head down; when he saw he had company.