Then came over him the most unaccountable sensation of all, a fury beyond his comprehension or experience, more destructive, far more dangerous, than panic. This was the surprised and surprising feeling of having been made a fool of—by no one but himself, which somehow seemed the intolerable part of it—for getting himself into such a humiliating position; for surely he could never save himself now, he was far too spent. He was furiously angry and ashamed. How different was this sensation from what he had always supposed the thoughts of a drowning man to be, when, in the last moments before going under, the victim’s entire life is said to pass rapidly in cinematic review before his agonized eyes. No such thing happened now. Grandin’s whole being was filled with an anguished passion of protest that this was the way it was to be. It was insulting to his dignity and to all that he had been preparing for during his whole life, which, if not comfort or privilege or esteem in the world, was at least not an ignominious end like this—all merely for having been so foolish (oh, nothing more reprehensible than that, nothing deserving of this punishing and final humiliation) as to swim out beyond his strength to get back. While his friends sat there not more than a hundred feet away, he must here go down, with no one knowing, no one aware of his difficulty, no one to whom he could say, not goodbye, but: Isn’t it silly—isn’t it outrageous and silly that this is the way it should have had to end?—He was not even to be allowed to explain. . . .

He could cry out and help of some kind would come at once, but the infuriating part of the whole circumstance was that he could not cry out at all. He found he could not bring himself to utter a syllable of protest aloud, no, not even if it meant his death. Rather than draw such humiliating attention, he would rather succumb wordless and—while it lasted—unnoticed.

Something of this sort (though far more keen, bitter, and unbearable) passed through his mind as he fought to keep afloat. It was ironic and frightening that the everyday I’d-­die-­rather-­than-­ask-­for-­help was here literally, crazily true. Then his heart almost gave way as, he saw that Cliff had turned, was looking toward the sea, was watching and listening, attentive with a quiet alert concern. Breathing hard, his brow barely above the wet, Grandin caught his glance. Cliff moved from the group to the edge of the surf. By a discreet pantomime he simulated across the distance which separated them the silent cry, the precious but unspoken words: Are you all right?