Here's Jules Verne and his narrator, Monsieur Aronax:
"Although my plunge took me completely by surprise, I nevertheless have a clear recollection of how I felt. At first I was dragged down to a depth of about twenty feet. I am a good swimmer, although I cannot claim to be the equal of Byron or Edgar Poe, who were masters of the art, and so my dip did not cause me to lose my head. Two vigorous kicks brought me back to the surface."
I must say that if two kicks alone can bring you up from twenty feet under, you are a "master of the art" indeed. As a young boy, such a passage had me diving deep and attempting to rise again with as few kicks as possible. (The amount of air still in your lungs made a big difference, I found.) The passage also had me curious about this Byron, though I'd heard of Edgar Allan Poe, not that I'd heard of him, a poet, swimming. And, quite frankly, I never settled my self-projection issues, could never quite decide among Professor Aronax, harpooner Ned Land, or Captain Nemo himself as my own hero-image. (In the passage above, isn't Aronax the epitome of cool? The rationalist never loses his head, despite falling overboard as he does. The professor's valet, by the way, jumps overboard, following his master into peril as a matter of course.)
I always wanted to pit myself against a giant octopus, though I've grown out of that phase.
I'll have to put Verne's novel on the to-be-reread pile.
Stoneware; glazed with transparent brown and a medley of others for the blotchy octo-effect.
