When I was invited to go surf-bathing at Muizenberg, I rubbed my
eyes, for I had vague ideas that this pastime was confined to South
Sea Islanders. Recollections of Ballantyne's books crowded in on me;
of apparently harmless sandal-wood traders, who unblushingly doubled
the part of bloodthirsty pirates with their peaceful avocations; of
bevies of swarthy but merry maidens rolling in on their planks on the
top of vast surges; of possibly some hideous banquet of taro roots and
"long pig" (baked over hot stones under a cover of plantain leaves) to
follow on these primitive pastimes; even perhaps of some coloured
captive maiden, wreathed in hibiscus flowers, loudly proclaiming her
distaste at the idea of being compulsorily converted into "long pig."
I should, of course, have had to rescue her after exhibiting prodigies
of valour, to find this dumb but devoted damsel clinging to me like a
leech, remaining a most embarrassing appendage until she had learned
sufficient English to answer "I will," when I could have united her to
a suitable mate, a copper-coloured yet contented bride.
When Capetown swelters in heat, Muizenberg is generally ten degrees
cooler, though, most obligingly, the water of the Indian Ocean at
Muizenberg is ten degrees warmer than that of the Atlantic at
Capetown, owing to the Antarctic current setting in to the latter.
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