The flux and reflux of its waters were to him a melodious breathing which uttered in his ear a sentiment; he felt and comprehended its inward meaning.
No mariner, no man of science, could have predicted better than he the slightest wrath of the ocean, the faintest change on that vast face.

By the manner of the waves as they rose and died away upon the shore, he could foresee tempests, surges, squalls, the height of tides, or calms.
When night had spread its veil upon the sky, he still could see the sea in its twilight mystery, and talk with it.

At all times he shared its fecund life, feeling in his soul the tempest when it was angry; breathing its rage in its hissing breath; running with its waves as they broke in a thousand liquid fringes upon the rocks.

He felt himself intrepid, free, and terrible as the sea itself; like it, he bounded and fell back; he kept its solemn silence; he copied its sudden pause.

In short, he had wedded the sea; it was now his confidant, his friend.