DOI article:
Hurley, Frank: The cycle of a coral reef: blossoms of stone and fish of flame
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.63706#0776
heavens flame with rosy splendour; the wavelets like ripples from a furnac©
lake, gild the beach. Fainter, feebler, fades the afterglow; then the world
grows grey.
Friday’s fire burns homely on the beach; the palms throw silhouettes against
the star-studded night, and the canoe, with my stränge companions, comes home.
Our couch is the coral sand; our roof the glittering heavens; our lamp the moon,
that raises her crescent above the palms. The native gather round the camp
fire, and we talk to them of cities, people, and so-called civilization. They listen
fascinated, and wish to see it all.
Eight P. M.; and in the shelter of a wind screen made by the sails of the
giddy canoes, under the star-studded canopy of heaven, we talk to the natives of
the white people and their busy lives on the other side of the world, of their
far-off wonders, of their shops and houses.
Eight P. M. . . . The cities are flocking to theatres and cinemas to gaze
upon shadows . . . shadows of things being acted; and here on Dauko we are
living a real life, free and happy. All this; and on the other side, life in a city
flat! Good Heavens! What a contrast! One wonders if our civilization is all
that we think it is. If I were a savage without ambition, which after all accounts
for most of the miseries of life, I would not seek to be more than that — a wild,
free child of nature rather than a serf of civilization.
The fire burns. My native brothers listen hypnotized to the incredible tales
of great cities and moving pictures, theatres and traffic jams. The sea laps
softly on the beach . . .
*
My coral garden is a small one; but a mile or two square — scarcely worth
considering amongst the thousands of square miles which fringe the Queensland
coast for a distance of over twelve hundred miles. Yet in every square foot,
nay in every square inch, there is more wonder and beauty, than one ever dreamt
Creation held. You can walk from Dauko shore waist deep through tepid waters
of crystal sapphire, and tread the paths of silver sand amongst the coral beds.
You hold your breath in wonder. The glorious flower garden, with it’s million
blooms, and its gay birds, is second to the dream-land around. Underfoot
shoals of dazzling hued fishes dart in flashing showers to the safe retreat
of the coral anders and grottos. Look at the myriads of timid little eyes staring
back at you. The coral clump is their home, you may even break it off and
lift it from the water. Yet the tiny fishes will not vacate their refuge.
Here is a garden of madrepore corals of every tint that autumn knows. There
are clumps of delicate pink, bright blue and verdant green. It is so frail as to
break at the slightest touch. Yes, but on over yonder along the reef edge there
are sturdier corals so hard that they can scarcely be chipped with a hämmer.
They flourish best where the surf breaks over them unceasingly, under conditions
that would destroy the most powerful works of man.
lake, gild the beach. Fainter, feebler, fades the afterglow; then the world
grows grey.
Friday’s fire burns homely on the beach; the palms throw silhouettes against
the star-studded night, and the canoe, with my stränge companions, comes home.
Our couch is the coral sand; our roof the glittering heavens; our lamp the moon,
that raises her crescent above the palms. The native gather round the camp
fire, and we talk to them of cities, people, and so-called civilization. They listen
fascinated, and wish to see it all.
Eight P. M.; and in the shelter of a wind screen made by the sails of the
giddy canoes, under the star-studded canopy of heaven, we talk to the natives of
the white people and their busy lives on the other side of the world, of their
far-off wonders, of their shops and houses.
Eight P. M. . . . The cities are flocking to theatres and cinemas to gaze
upon shadows . . . shadows of things being acted; and here on Dauko we are
living a real life, free and happy. All this; and on the other side, life in a city
flat! Good Heavens! What a contrast! One wonders if our civilization is all
that we think it is. If I were a savage without ambition, which after all accounts
for most of the miseries of life, I would not seek to be more than that — a wild,
free child of nature rather than a serf of civilization.
The fire burns. My native brothers listen hypnotized to the incredible tales
of great cities and moving pictures, theatres and traffic jams. The sea laps
softly on the beach . . .
*
My coral garden is a small one; but a mile or two square — scarcely worth
considering amongst the thousands of square miles which fringe the Queensland
coast for a distance of over twelve hundred miles. Yet in every square foot,
nay in every square inch, there is more wonder and beauty, than one ever dreamt
Creation held. You can walk from Dauko shore waist deep through tepid waters
of crystal sapphire, and tread the paths of silver sand amongst the coral beds.
You hold your breath in wonder. The glorious flower garden, with it’s million
blooms, and its gay birds, is second to the dream-land around. Underfoot
shoals of dazzling hued fishes dart in flashing showers to the safe retreat
of the coral anders and grottos. Look at the myriads of timid little eyes staring
back at you. The coral clump is their home, you may even break it off and
lift it from the water. Yet the tiny fishes will not vacate their refuge.
Here is a garden of madrepore corals of every tint that autumn knows. There
are clumps of delicate pink, bright blue and verdant green. It is so frail as to
break at the slightest touch. Yes, but on over yonder along the reef edge there
are sturdier corals so hard that they can scarcely be chipped with a hämmer.
They flourish best where the surf breaks over them unceasingly, under conditions
that would destroy the most powerful works of man.