Stavanger Bay the bottom of the deep blue sea, sea, sea.
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The sea. It was a petulant, self-centered thing. A fickle mistress who called for her daughters mostly, and remained untamed by men. Perhaps that was why it was so tempting to seek Her out; to take from her, to watch her, to tempt fate — as he was doing now.

Was doing. The water had been so tempting in this summer heat and, while Dubloon had known better, he wasn't himself. He saw that deep blue — heard the inviting thrum of ocean waves throttling the beach — and he began to wade. He stepped lightly at first. The water soaked in to his legs, his chest, up to his shoulders - then he was treading water, but it was sublime. 

Cold. It washed across him. He swam happily for a while, but the sun still affected him. He was foolish — he was drifting, and the current swept him further, further, further still, until —

it was so cold. Everything so heavy. He was so tired and the shore, it was -- it was gone.

The waves were singing to him. A jolly old song with so many voices — they were familiar as they rolled in, but they filled his head with brine so thoroughly that the song became nothing — he, became nothing. A headpiece filled with sand.

The waves crashed across his broad back; he couldn't keep it up. He couldn't — but he was trying!

The sea's shadows were waiting. They drifted beneath him, growing bigger and bigger, until he was dwarfed — a speck in the great sea —

And the whale came up, and the whale went down, and Dubloon was gone.