It was an almost perfect afternoon. How could Algy resist perching on the prow of the beached boat in the warm sunshine? He settled himself against the ropes, and gazed out to sea, far beyond the lighthouse, dreaming of setting sail for faraway places when the tide swept back in. Perhaps he might travel to the exotic lands of the Trade Winds; he could almost believe that he could hear their “long low croon”:

          In the harbour, in the island, in the Spanish Seas,
          Are the tiny white houses and the orange-trees,
          And day-long, night long, the cool and pleasant breeze
             Of the steady Trade Winds blowing.

          There is the red wine, the nutty Spanish ale,
          The shuffle of the dancers, the old salt’s tale,
          The squeaking fiddle, and the soughing in the sail
             Of the steady Trade Winds blowing.

          And o’ nights there’s fire-flies and the yellow moon,
          And in the ghostly palm-trees the sleepy tune
          Of the quiet voice calling me, the long low croon
             Of the steady Trade Winds blowing.

[Algy is quoting the poem Trade Winds from Salt Water Poems and Ballads by John Masefield, first published in 1912.]

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