Who can remember the sea? For to remember something is to know it, and who can know the sea? Even Horselord Neptune, even he, even Lukothea and her laughing son, even Palaemon, sailor-friends, even they, even the sea gods, even they do not know the sea. For from the beginning the sea was, and neither time nor will can alter its constant roll.

Old Man Proteus, who can take the shape of a bull, a serpent, a tremendous fire, who knows the future and the past and everything hidden on Earth and in Heaven, he perhaps knows the sea the best. His is the grey-green colour of the sea on a windy day, his is the colour of storms and foam. He has lived with the sea, and not apart, drinking her wine as his, living as the shark does, as the dolphin; as the secretive octopus, as the lionfish. His voice is the crashing of breakers, his blood is the long-heeded call and the feast itself. No nation bows to him. He lives, like Ishmael, wild and apart from all civility. Even he, who spoke the word itself in the beginning, that is, Ocean, even he…