He came to the surface gasping; dashed the water from his eyes; then settled into a steady breast stroke, swimming out to sea, straight to the sun.
He swam. He swam. He swam. On, toward the shoreless horizon.
His heart pounded in his ears. Still he swam on.
His arms felt like lead. He folded them across his breast and swam without them.
His legs could move no more. He turned upon his back and lay, like a bit of driftwood, resting.
He grinned at the blue sky above him.
“Flotsam and jetson,” he remarked confidentially to a swooping gull. “‘Returned Empty. This side up, with care.’ That’s more to the point just now. Don’t peck at my eyes, you greedy brute! Wait a week for that.... Here lies a poor derelict on the ocean of Time, at the mercy of every wind of circumstance.... Swim, you fool! Yonder lies your one way Home.”
He turned over, and swam on and on, into the dazzling glory.
At length a dream-like sense of unreality came over him, a strange, sweet peace; a wish to fall asleep.
He heard church bells in the distance, growing nearer.