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Man overboard by Winston Spencer Churchill.
It was a little after half past nine

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when the man fell overboard. The
mail steamer was hurrying through the Red Sea

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in the hope of making up the
time which the currents of the Indian Ocean

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had stolen. The night was clear, though the moon was hidden behind clouds.

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The warm air was laden with moisture. The still surface of the waters

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was only broken by the movement of
the great ship, from whose quarter the

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long, slanting undulations struck out like
the feathers from an arrow shaft, and

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in whose wake the froth and air
bubbles churned up by the propeller, trailed

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in a narrowing line to the darkness
of the horizon. There was a concert

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on board. All the passengers were
glad to break the monotony of the voyage,

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and gathered around the piano in the
companion house. The decks were deserted.

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The man had been listening to the
music and joining in the songs,

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but the room was hot, and
he came out to smoke a cigarette and

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enjoy a breath of the wind which
the speedy passage of the liner created.

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It was the only wind in the
Red Sea that night. The accommodation ladder

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had not been unshipped since leaving Aden, and the man walked out onto the

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platform as on to a balcony.
He leaned his back against the rail and

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blew a puff of smoke into the
air reflectively. The piano struck up a

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lively tune, and a voice began
to sing the first verse of the Rowdy

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Dowdy Boys. The measured pulsations of
the screw were a subdued but additional accompaniment.

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The man knew the song. It
had been the rage at all the

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music halls when he had started for
India seven years before. It reminded him

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of the brilliant and busy streets he
had not seen for so long, but

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was soon to see again. He
was just going to join in the chorus

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when the railing, which had been
insecurely fastened, gave way suddenly with a

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snap, and he fell backwards into
the warm water of the sea amid a

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great splash. For a moment he
was physically too much astonished to think.

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Then he realized that he must shout. He began to do this even before

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he rose to the surface. He
achieved a hoarse, inarticulate half choked scream.

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A startled brain suggested the word help, and he bawled this out lustily

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and with frantic effort, six or
seven times without stopping. Then he listened,

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High, Hi, Clear the way
for the rowdy dowdy boys. The

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chorus floated back to him across the
smooth water, for the ship had already

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passed completely by, and as he
heard the music, a long stab of

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terror drove through his heart. The
possibility that he would not be picked up

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dawned for the first time on his
consciousness. The chorus started again. Then

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I say, boys, who's for
a jolly spree? Rum tumdilium? Who'll

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have a drink with me? Help? Help, Help, shrieked the man,

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in desperate fear. Fond of a
glass now, and then fond of

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a row or noise, High High, Clear the way for the rowdy dowdy

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boys. The last words drawled out
faint and fainter. The vessel was steaming

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fast. The beginning of the second
verse was confused and broken by the ever

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growing distance. The dark outline of
the great hull was getting blurred. The

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stern light dwindled. Then he set
out to swim after it, with few

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curious energy, pausing every dozen strokes
to shout long, wild shouts. The

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disturbed waters of the sea began to
settle again to their rest. The widening

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undulations became ripples. The aerated confusion
of the screw fizzed itself upwards and out.

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The noise of motion and the sounds
of life and music died away.

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The liner was but a single fading
light on the blackness of the waters,

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and a dark shadow against the paler
sky. At length, full realization came

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to the man, and he stopped
swimming. He was alone, abandoned.

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With the understanding, his brain reeled. He began again to swim, only

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now, instead of shouting, he
prayed, mad incoherent prayers, the words

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stumbling into one another. Suddenly,
a distant light seemed to flicker and brighten.

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A surge of joy and hope rushed
through his mind. They were going

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to stop, to turn the ship
and come back. And with the hope

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came gratitude. His prayer was answered. Broken words of thanksgiving rose to his

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lips. He stopped and stared after
the light, his soul in his eyes.

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As he watched it, it grew
gradually but steadily smaller, then the

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man knew that his fate was certain. Despair succeeded hope. Gratitude gave place

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to curses. Beating the water with
his arms, he raved impotently. Foul

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oaths burst from him, as broken
as his prayers, and as unheeded.

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The fit of passion passed, hurried
by increasing fatigue, he became silent,

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silent as was the sea, for
even the ripples were subsiding into the glassy

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smoothness of the surface. He swam
on mechanically along the track of the ship,

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sobbing quietly to himself in the misery
of fear, and the stern light

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became a tiny speck yellower but scarcely
bigger than some of the stars which here

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and there shone between the clouds.
Nearly twenty minutes passed, and the man's

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fatigue began to change to exhaustion.
The overpowering sense of the inevitable pressed upon

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him. With the weariness came a
strange comfort. He need not swim all

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the long way to Suez. There
was another course. He would die,

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He would resign his existence. Since
he was thus abandoned, he threw up

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his hands impulsively and sank down,
down, he went through the warm water.

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The physical death took hold of him, and he began to drown.

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The pain of that savage grip recalled
his anger. He fought with it,

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furiously, striking out with arms and
legs. He sought to get back to

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the air. It was a hard
struggle, but he escaped, victorious and

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gasping to the surface, despair awaited
him. Feebly, splashing with his hands,

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he moaned in bitter misery, I
can't, I must, Oh,

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God, let me die. The
moon, then, in her third quarter,

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pushed out from behind the concealing clouds
and shed a pale, soft glitter

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upon the sea. Up in the
water, fifty yards away was a black

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triangular object. It was a fin
It approached him slowly. His last appeal

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had been heard. End of Man
Overboard.