Then, just as I was losing faith, spilling out of the white surf, came one small, unmistakable penguin.
Coyote glimpsed white surf, the crystal blue of the sea.
Out there, perhaps a mile away, the white surf flinked on a coral reef, and beyond that the open sea was dark blue.
The island from which we had come was being pounded by white surf.
Pitch dark, with only a little white surf to show the line of the beaches.
A hundred feet below, strong white surf creamed endlessly against the base of the tan-yellow stone.
Our flight took us north along the shimmering white surf of the southern Atlantic far below.
On either side of it the white surf broke, lashed into a fury by the onshore wind.
Two collided, and in the confusion they drifted into the line of heaving white surf.
Beyond the field proper there was a ring of white surf.
