The sea was old and ancient, but timeless and forever. He had no beginning, no end. His beginning was last to prehistory; his end was so far away it might as well never be. Water, they say, has a cycle, turned to vapor and rained down again on the Earth, again and again. The sea was eternal, the sea was ever changing, the sea was constant.
He appeared as a child to the people of the island. It made sense to them, for the sea was playful, chaotic, impossible to appease; a child without bounds, with unsurmountable imagination and power, hiding in his depths a world beyond imagining, just like any creative child’s mind.
They said that, in the day or in the night, they would see him with a stick propping up a wave like the eaves of a tent, peering down at a book with a flashlight, like a kid staying up late with a book under the covers. In the pages, ships sailed for adventure in foreign lands or sunk to the murky bottom, where monsters and dragons awaited them.
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