It was, of course, the intention of Boyton and the pilot
to get into the French current; but either because the swimmer did not
get far enough to the east, with the tide running out or what seems
more probable, because the pilot, owing to the thick weather, which hid
both the French and English coast, missed his reckoning, they were
swept down the English side of the Ridge and all chance of reaching the
French coast before night was lost. Paul resolutely attacked this
ridge, hoping to get over it and reach the French current in time. It
proved to be a terrible struggle. The sea here was foaming and
tumbling about in a fearful way for the voyager. It was not a regular
roll or swell, but short, quick, chopping waves, tumbling about in all
directions, that whirled him round and round, rolled him over and over,
rendered his puny sail utterly useless and blinded him with foam and
spray. It was a strangely fascinating spectacle to watch him in his hand
to hand struggle with the ocean. The waves seemed to become living
things animated by a terrible hatred for the strange being battling
with them. Sometimes they seemed to withdraw for a moment, as if by
concert and then rush down on him from all sides, roaring like wild
beasts.
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