Now and again he heard a faint,
choking scream uttered by some drowning wretch, and a few hundred yards
away caught sight of a black object which he thought might be a boat. If
so, he reflected that it must be full. Moreover, he could not overtake
it. No; his only chance was to make for the shore. He was a strong
swimmer, and happily the water was almost as warm as milk. There seemed
to be no reason why he should not reach it, supported as he was by a
lifebelt, if the sharks would leave him alone, which they might, as
there was plenty for them to feed on. The direction he knew well enough,
for now in the great silence of the sea he could hear the boom of the
mighty rollers breaking on the beach.
Ah, those rollers! He remembered how that very afternoon Benita and he
had watched them through his field glass sprouting up against the cruel
walls of rock, and wondered that when the ocean was so calm they had
still such power. Now, should he live to reach them, he was doomed to
match himself against that power. Well, the sooner he did so the sooner
it would be over, one way or the other. This was in his favour: the tide
had turned, and was flowing shorewards. Indeed, he had little to do but
to rest upon his plank, which he placed crosswise beneath his breast,
and steered himself with his feet.
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