Down by the Ocean | editing.

PROLOGUE

You cannot run from the sea.

Oddly enough, it is extraordinarily human. It is simple, like a fisherman's boat, or the taste of salt on the skin. It is as flighty as the townspeople's gossip, and as unfaithful as a seductress: the sea has teased a hundred men and loved none, though we all share the water.

And yet, the sea is mysterious. It is stoic, as stoic as the gods who are whispered to rule over it. It is as haunting and strange as the song of a siren, as deadly and dangerous as the teeth and coils of a sea serpent. The ghosts of a thousand pirates wander the lonely, forsaken waves, groaning listlessly for the beguiling women they loved and the wondrous adventures they sought.

So I suppose that is the magic in it. Because the waves, cursed to never die, carry the stories of the living. A hundred secrets, a thousand whispered tales, and infinite legends to touch and tremble. That is the power and the might of the water. That is why we shake when it thunders in anger, when it cries out with torrents of rain, when it threatens to overflow with dazzling laughter.

There was a girl like that. Once she crossed your path, she was inevitable. And no matter how quickly or how cleverly or how far you ran, she'd reach you sooner or later; and once she did, you might have a better chance escaping Davy Jones's locker.

For the human heart is owed to the sea. To the stories— and to her.

Oh, take me down by the ocean
Let me see her again.