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Tales from the Island of Serendip
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I recall an old woman, paddling uncertainly in the surf, her back to the horizon. The seventh wave arrived, always here by far the most powerful, which fishermen wait for to get their heavy boats ashore. It picked her up, in an instant scooting her 50 yards up the beach . Astonished, she looked behind her, but the thin skim of water had receded into the sand. She raised her arms ecstatically to Heaven.

 

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Sunrise over, the pilgrim tourists head off for an early breakfast. For a brief while the shore lies empty but for the crashing of the surf and the cries of the gulls. Then from the south, fisherwomen appear walking up the shore from nearby villages, with their baskets, heading for market.

 

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