Even in the vast and mysterious reaches of the sea we are brought back to the fundamental truth that nothing lives to itself.

For all at last return to the sea—to Oceanus, the ocean river, like the ever-flowing stream of time, the beginning of the end.

In Sheldon it was not only the wild creatures [and cats] … that were sacrificed in the campaign against an insect. … Sheep [were in]… a small, untreated blue-grass pasture across a gravel road from a field which had been treated with dieldrin spray…. Evidently some spray had drifted across the road into the pasture, for the sheep began to show symptoms of intoxication almost at once…. They lost interest in food and displayed extreme restlessness, following the pasture fence around and around apparently searching for a way out… [They] bleated almost continuously, and stood with their heads lowered… [Several] sheep eventually died.

It is a curious situation that the sea, from which life first arose should now be threatened by the activities of one form of that life. But the sea, though changed in a sinister way, will continue to exist; the threat is rather to life itself.

The birth of a volcanic island is an event marked by prolonged and violent travail; the forces of the earth striving to create, and all the forces of the sea opposing.

The edge of the sea is a strange and beautiful place. All through the long history of Earth it has been an area of unrest where waves have broken heavily against the land, where the tides have pressed forward over the continents, receded, and then returned. For no two successive days is the shore line precisely the same. Not only do the tides advance and retreat in their eternal rhythms, but the level of the sea itself is never at rest. It rises or falls as the glaciers melt or grow, as the floor of the deep ocean basins shifts under its increasing load of sediments, or as the Earth’s crust along the continental margins warps up or down in adjustment to strain and tension. Today a little more land may belong to the sea, tomorrow a little less. Always the edge of the sea remains an elusive and indefinable boundary.

The frillshark has many anatomical features similar to those of the ancient sharks that lived 25 to 30 million years ago. It has too many gills and too few dorsal fins for a modern shark, and its teeth, like those of fossil sharks, are three-pronged and briarlike. Some ichthyologists regard it as a relic derived from very ancient shark ancestors that have died out in the upper waters but, through this single species, are still carrying on their struggle for earthly survival, in the quiet of the deep sea.

The winds, the sea, and the moving tides are what they are. If there is wonder and beauty and majesty in them, science will discover these qualities. If they are not there, science cannot create them. If there is poetry in my book about the sea, it is not because I deliberately put it there, but because no one could write truthfully about the sea and leave out the poetry.

To stand at the edge of the sea … is to have knowledge of things that are as eternal as any earthly life can be.

When I think of the floor of the deep sea, the single, overwhelming fact that possesses my imagination is the accumulation of sediments.