For Caroll the cold cold sea was an object of hate (like “a spider, a ghost, the income-tax, gout, an umbrella of three”), a ceaseless howl of a dog beaten day and night. Kipling loved her. The sight of “salt water unbounded”, her “heave and the halt and the crash”, her “menaces swift as her mercies”, he loved all of her.
As do I. Like Keats (but not Caroll) and a million others after him, I sat by her side and thought of thoughts I could steal to capture something that has always frightened and fascinated me.
Failing, I lay back and let her sounds soak into me under a cold February sky.