I was witness to it one night, nature’s rage.

We all knew there would be a violent storm that night, so I went to see Mrs. Wycombe—the widow of the old lighthouse keeper—to help shut the windows and lock the doors. I made my way through the cottage while the shutters rattled against the sides of the house and the windows shook in their weathered frames. The sky started to blacken. I tried to hurry with the rest, but a strong gust of wind forced open the clasp of the window in front of me, so I peered out.

Fast-moving dark gray and black masses overwhelmed the sky and shot down concentrated pellets of water with unimaginable frequency. It was like the sky had wrung out every ounce of liquid from the clouds, and when there was nothing left, stripped the hydrogen particles from the air and channeled them downwards.

A shiver crept up my skin when the wind started. I could bear the deafening downpour of water ceaselessly battering the sea’s surface, but the howling of the wind was unnerving. The wind carried an uncontained chorus of high-pitched, trembling moans, which started out softly and grew louder in an ominous, never-ending rhythm.

It drowned out the sounds of the waves crashing at the shore, trying to rid themselves of the torrents of water. I shifted my gaze to the sea and watched as raindrops pounded the tumultuous surface with water.

There was always something strange to me about rain at sea, the same element drowning into itself, one version absorbing the other.

And the sea looked terrified, trying to keep the sky at bay. Growing swells of water surged up and were thrown about by the wind, colliding into each other. I could imagine the sea crying up to the sky, Why do you do this?

The floorboards creaked behind me–it was just Mrs. Wycombe coming up the stairs. I realized my head was propped out the window, water was dripping inside. I shut the window and brushed the damp hair out of my face.

“When will it stop?” I was worried the storm would make its way to shore soon and I needed to get back.

Mrs. Wycombe glanced out at the sky and then the sea and said, “When it runs out of tears. If you look closely,” and she took a moment to locate a small opening in the sky, “Ah, there–you can see it’s starting to let up. The center has the most rage. That’s usually where the softest point is too.”

A streak of lightning cracked the sky in two and brought my attention back to the clashes of dark blue and purple. It felt like I was there with the sea, absorbing the rage of the sky, losing control against the force of the wind, and getting pummeled by the onslaught of rain.

“Why is the sky so angry at the sea?” I asked.

“It loves the sea. The poor sky loves the sea.”