No rain right now, but a fantastic gale off the Sound. The sound and smell of the wind is amazing. It’s warm air for November, hurling and tumbling itself onto shore. A half-dozen seagulls hover stationary above the beach, held in place by the onrushing wind. While I was watching, one dipped into the seaweed below — it’s about half-tide and ebbing, with mounds of fresh seaweed piled up from earlier this morning — to snatch a quick bite.
Conrad knows about this sort of thing:
If you would know the age of the earth, look upon the sea in a storm. The grayness of the whole immense surface, the wind furrows upon the faces of the waves, the great masses of foam, tossed about and waving, like matted white locks, give to the sea in a gale an appearance of hoary age, lustreless, dull, without gleams, as though it had been created before light itself.