All my life I've liked the sea.
Here's the sea now, from the boat from Provincetown coming into Boston harbor:
This line from The Tempest (1.2.149-151), when Prospero describes how they were cast adrift, captures the sea's vast, unceasing rhythm, doesn't it?
And I've reproduced here, for no apparent reason, this text from Don Gifford's heavy Ulysses Annotated distills out of the above Joycean mist numerous facts:
My house in Boston is close enough to the sea that great rifts of sea fog periodically blow through the street. So the sea visits me, and I regularly visit it. My summer jogging route, which follows an "intended" Dorchester part of Boston's Harbor Walk, winds along the shoreline for a few miles.
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