The hope that comes just before the end is the strongest hope of all.
"For God's sake, be brave, darling! Cling tight and be careful when you breathe," he managed to cry in her ear.

There was no answer, but he felt that she had heard.
The night was so black that he could not see the spar to which he clung.
At no time could he see more than the fitful gleam of dark water as some mysterious glimmer was produced by the weird machinery of the air.

He could hear the roar of the mighty waves, could feel the uplifting power and the dash downward from seemingly improbable heights, but he could not see the cauldron in which they were dancing.
It was fortunate that he could not, for a single glimpse of that sea in all its fury would have terrified him beyond control.

In sheer despair he would have given up the infinitesimal claim he had for salvation and welcomed death from the smothering tons, now so bravely battled against.
The girl to whom he clung and whose rigid clasp was still about his neck had not spoken, and scarcely breathed since the plunge into the sea.

At times he felt utterly alone in the darkness, so death-like was her silence.