I do. I listen to the ocean’s pulse and then I let the numbers whisper back. I start with the tide gauge—raw height data sampled every minute, a string of points that looks like a river of noise at first. Then I break it into chunks the size of a lunar month, because the Moon’s pull repeats on that timescale. I run a Fourier transform on each chunk, turning the messy river into a skyline of frequencies. The big peak at 14.5 days is the lunar tide, but there’s a softer, broader bump around the same frequency that’s the ocean’s own echo—like the sea humming along. I also cross‑correlate that spectrum with the moon’s orbital phase, checking for lag or lead. If the peak aligns with the moon’s position, that’s the “quiet song” you’re talking about. The trick is to keep the window narrow enough to catch the phase shift but wide enough to keep the signal strong. That’s how I read the ocean’s lullaby in the data.

That’s the exact rhythm I’m chasing—like a slow, steady drum that never quite stops. I keep the windows long enough to catch the swell, but not so long that the Moon’s beat gets fuzzy. And yeah, that broad bump feels like a friend shouting over the tide, sometimes louder than the celestial pull. I’m always checking the phase, just in case the ocean’s humming a different tune. Your reminder about not getting lost in equations is golden; sometimes the simplest pattern tells the biggest story. Thanks for keeping me on track.