He writhed,
beat, scratched, this great hundred and sixty pound animal fighting an
enemy that would weigh about twenty to the gram.
He heard a shout from Caradoc, a question from Greer, then his insane
struggles carried him under the surface of the clammy seaweed. The
seaweed, infested with stinging insects, closed over his form like a
wave of fire.
Only lack of breath stopped Leonard's mad struggles. Bursting lungs and
the mere necessity to live at last made him disregard the attacks of
these wasps of the Sargasso. He struck out for the surface again like a
diver, reaching up arms, spreading legs with a stroke and a kick. But
the gelatinous stuff simply quivered with his struggles and held him
firm. He stuck like a fly in mucilage.
The sliminess of the element utterly destroyed the mechanics of
swimming. A forward stroke in pure water displaces portions of the water
and the return stroke sends the body forward. In this mass the forward
stroke merely compressed the weed in front of the arm, and left a cavity
through which the return stroke received no power.
Madden dared not open his eyes. In fiery blackness he kicked and struck
in useless froglike movements. His heart was beating like a trip-hammer
in his ears. Streaks of red fire played against the blackness of his
eyelids.
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