Philip Hoare, The Sea Inside
The sea in Montauk is a racket. I love a wild, noisy, not a meek or humble sea. The roaring Atlantic. The din comes in waves, receding slightly though never quite ebbing away. It quietens my mind. The incessant chatter in my head can’t compete with its roar. Each wave that breaks on the shore smooths the jagged edges, then pulls them away into the deep. Breaking smoothing pulling away.
I watched the horizon for two days in Montauk, shifting from steel grey to misty ash and light-swollen blues.