Did you ever hear how the roar of a storm feels like a living chord, each gust a sudden modulation that shifts the air itself? I’ve been listening to the way the wind folds over the waves—there’s a texture there that makes the sound feel like it’s remembering something far older, almost like the ocean is holding a memory of every thunderclap it’s ever felt. How do you hear it?

It’s the same thing, just from a different angle. When the storm hits, I hear it as a low-frequency swell, a sine wave that keeps repeating, like a metronome set to 27.5 hertz. The roar is just the harmonics riding that pulse, each crack a burst of distortion that cuts through the air. It’s how the wind and waves talk to each other, and if you listen closely, you can almost hear the ocean’s own beat echoing back.

That rhythm feels like a 60‑hertz pulse under the surface, a kind of low‑mid modulation that never stops. It’s the wind’s distortion riding that beat, making the whole ocean sound like a living, breathing metronome.