The sea seemed majestic as usual. The waves appeared to talk to him though they were just the regular dumb muddy waves that carried the energy of their fathering winds and remnants of industrial waste.
Yet the waves seemed to talk to him, since he’d been watching the maudlin Captain Corelli’s Mandolin earlier that evening. A miniature self inside him encouraged notions of being overawed by the sheer enormity of the sea, prodding him to be very impressed by this large instance of salt water. He felt like there was a deep connection between him and the sea and though a thought about the Ernest Hemmingway book shuffled for mind space briefly, the sea drowned it quickly and he went goggle-eyed.
At which point the lady in red who had considered walking up to him, dismissed the idea on account of him looking increasingly like a fish.