When you're drowning, you can't be logical about saving yourself. If you could save yourself, you'd be swimming and not drowning. So you grab at the water, pulling yourself up, trying to keep your mouth or nose just above the water to gasp in your sustenance for that moment, an ounce of air which could not satisfy you while lying on the beach, could mean life or death.
When you're drowning, you grab at the person that tries to save you, drowning him with you, using him as your floating device. Some of your heroes die under your panicking weight, not able to break away from your need and others will drive you down further so you'd release.
When you're drowning the water feels thick like molasses in your lungs. The water feels like hands grabbing at your skin tugging you inside itself, devouring you like a famished animal. You can't find the rhythm of closing your mouth under water and opening it to gulp the air, the water fills your mouth, your lungs, taking advantage of your confusion.
When you're drowning, you don't know to put your feet down, and that you may be drowning in a wade of water not deep enough to sink a toy ship. No one can reason or yell loud enough to make you hear that letting your legs down can save you. All the while, the motions you make to save yourself only carries you deeper and deeper into sea.