Once in my life I had obtained a slight glimpse of the same sensation, and then, too, strangely enough, while swimming,--in the mightiest ocean-surge into which I had ever dared plunge my mortal body.

Keats hints at the same sudden emotion, in a wild poem written among the Scottish mountains.

It was not the distinctive sensation which drowning men are said to have, that spasmodic passing in review of one's whole personal history.

I had no well-defined anxiety, felt no fear, was moved to no prayer, did not give a thought to home or friends; only it swept over me, as with a sudden tempest, that, if I meant to get back to my own camp, I must keep my wits about me.

I must not dwell on any other alternative, any more than a boy who climbs a precipice must look down.