Combeferre tries to ignore the cold seawater and latches onto one of Bahorel's arms. The shore isn't too far away, and he shouts, "Come on, to shore."

There is no time to think about the terrible sense of dread and foreboding knotting up his innards. More important not to drown or be killed by the wreckage of the plane bearing down on them before they get clear of the debris. A part of him registers the bag hanging off the crook of his elbow, but it's too hard to swim for shore while clinging to his friends and trying to get free, and think about his stuff. In the back of his mind is a tiny alarm bell about the stowed luggage, but he ignores it.

The shore is a narrow beach that quickly turns to brush and jungle and wild land. No wild animals or other people in sight, so hopefully they can regroup once they get onto dry land and make sure as many people as possible don't drown or otherwise become victims.

"Courfeyrac?!" he calls over his shoulder, suddenly panicking when he can't see his friend.