Oct, 2nd
I hear in passing or by read,
"They say the sea is cold, but the sea contains the hottest blood of all, and the wildest, the most urgent. All the whales in the wider deeps, hot are they, as they urge on and on, and dive beneath the icebergs. The right whales, the sperm-whales, the hammer-heads, the killers there they blow, there they blow, hot wild white breath out of the sea!" (Whales Weep Not by D.H. Lawrence, British poet 1885–1930 )
And in venturing into the depths of the briny floors and sandy murks of the Shallows I see first hand how yet hot, also cold, and angry they can be on Gaia. There is no rest nor safe haven in the womb of the watery tempest. Her subjects and tenants all a team with violent life.
Yet what could have caused these normally calm sea dwellers to be in an uproar? And for thus I shall gather a crew and return to discover what plot lays burred deep within the sands.
