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.