He remembers the first time he saw the sea, the first time that lingers. Rough and choppy, pouring down from above as easily as it poured into the sides of the boat, dragging him under to drown him in the weight of water, of his uniform, of responsibility. He remembers grey and blue and brown all churned up together in his vision and in his stomach and it was everything he'd expected and nothing he'd imagined.

He stares out at it now, surrounding him, unending. There are poets and playwrights that describe it, always in sounds and colors, comparing it to a hundred different things when it is none. As blue as the sky or as grey as London fog, as loud as thunder, as silent as church.

But Hornblower sees no blue or grey. It is a myriad, a kaleidoscope, never one or the other, always both and neither. Nor is it silver or green, but all of them, always changing. Never once the same color twice.

It is never silent, always teeming with life and death, riding against its own moon-pulled tide, crashing somewhere past the horizon, roiling with vehemence somewhere despite the glass-like slate before him.

The ship around him groans and sighs, not meant for this inaction. He can feel it breathe beneath his feet, swelling, needing movement. He can feel it tremble at his feet like a lover anticipating his touch.

He nods to his first lieutenant and the world springs to life with noise and chaos and the slow distant pull of oars.