Forty Seven: Far From The Madding Crowd: Thomas Hardy - Adventures By The Shore

Troy wandered along towards the west.  A composit feeling of disgust towards himself, the monotony of a farmers life, the gloomy images of Fanny Robin who lay in the churchyard, remorse, and a general aversion to Bathsheba impelled him to seek a home anywhere, save Weatherbury.  At three in the afternoon he found himself at the foot of a slope more than a mile in length, which led to the range of hills lying parallel with shore and forming barrier between the basin of cultivated land and wilder scenery of the coast.  Up the hill stretched a  road, straight and white, two sides approaching each other in a gradual taper till they met the sky at the top. Throughout the length of this narrow inclined plane, not a sign of life was visible on this afternoon.  Troy toiled up the road with langour and depression.  The air was warm and muggy and the top seemed to recede as he approached. 

At last he reached the summit, and a new and novel prospect burst upon him with an affect almost like that of 

Pacific upon Balboa's gaze.  The broad steely sea, marked only by faint lines, which had semblance of being etched thereon to a degree deep not enough to disturb its general evenness, stretched the whole width of its front and round to the left, where, near the town and port of Budmouth, the sun bristled down upon it, and banished all colour to substitute in its place a clear oily polish.  Nothing moved in sky, land, or sea except a frill of milk-white foam along the nearest angles of shore, shreds of which licked the contiguous stones like tongues.

He descended and came to a small basin of sea inclosed by the cliffs.

Troy's nature freshened within him; he thought he should rest and bathe

before going further.  He undressed and plunged in.  Inside the cove of the water was uninteresting to a swimmer, being smooth as a pool, and to get a little of the ocean swell, Troy presently swam between the two projecting spurs of rock which formed the pillars of Hercules in this miniature Mediterranean.  Unfortunately for Troy a current unknown to him existed outside, which, was awkward for a swimmer who might be taken in it.  Troy found himself carried to the left and then in a swoop out to sea.

He now recollected the place and its sinister character.  Many swimmers had there prayed for a dry death from time to time, and like Gonzalo had been unanswered; and Troy began to deem it possible that he might be added to their number.  Not a boat of any kind was at present within sight, but far in the distance Budmouth lay upon the sea, as it were quietly regarding his efforts and beside the town the harbour showed its position by a dim mesh work of ropes and spars.  After well nigh exhausting himself in attempt to get back to the mouth of the cove, in his weakness swimming several inches deeper than was his wont, keeping up his breathing entirely by his nostrils, turning upon his back a dozen times over, swimming en papillon [butterfly stroke], and so on, Troy resolved as a last resource to tread water at a slight incline, and endeavour to reach the shore at any point, merely giving himself a gentle impetus inwards while carried on in the general direction of the tide.  This being a slow process, he found a narrow point of sand projecting into the sea.

While Troy's eyes were fixed on this, an unknown object came forward in the horizon and it appeared a ship's boat with many young sailors.

Troy's energy revived to prolong the struggle yet a little further.  Swimming with his right arm, he held up his left to hail them, splashing the waves, and shouting with all his might.   In the sunlight his form was clearly visible against the sky, and the men saw him immediately.  Backing their oars and putting the boat about, they pulled towards him with a will, and within a few minutes the sailors hauled him in over the stern.

They were part of a brig's crew and had come ashore for sand.  They lend him clothing they promised to land him in the morning.  Troy was in Budmouth.