West Injdies. Last week the Caribbean suddenly became still under a windless sky. Seabirds wheeled inland, crying. Small boats with flapping, empty sails were sculled to harbor. On the Virgin Islands natives took to their homes in the hills, jabbered warnings to each other. Voodoo priests crept about selling charms against death. Everywhere faces looked southeast.
Then a low whine of wind sounded across the water, quivered the palm fronds. Far out the sea turned frothy with whitecaps. The sun grew bloodred. The whine of wind became a scream and the sky shrieked....
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