The lonely lighthouse keeper, peering through a deep-set but narrow window at waves smashing onto the rocky shore, spouting upwards in a fanned geyser. So much depends upon his maintenance of momentum, but the better things go, the more dreadfully boring is life, and when things go poorly, there are russian roulette odds of tragedy. Like life on a mountain, but when someone crashes into the mountainside, the mountain-man is an unlikely participant in the tragedy.
Was it the inseparable connection of wave and hull — each feeling that, despite the lack of distance between them, they would remain distinct?
Was it that there wasn’t another mast for miles, at least the twelve miles out to the horizon?
Was it the motion, purposeless and uniform, a lethargic fidget that signaled anxiousness without anticipation.