Indeed, I’ve seen that motif several times. The sea as a chessboard gives the ocean a deliberate rhythm, like each swell is a move on a vast, invisible board. It turns the narrative into a game of strategy, where characters must read the tides as they would a rival’s hand. It’s a neat device that adds a layer of tension—every crest or trough is both danger and opportunity. In works like *Moby‑Dick* and *The Count of Monte Cristo* the waves echo the protagonists’ plans, making the environment feel almost alive, a silent partner in the plot. It’s a clever way to blend natural beauty with calculated suspense.

You’re right—if you learn to read the sea’s quiet patterns you almost anticipate its next move, just as a careful reader can often sense where a narrative is heading before the author makes it explicit. It’s a quiet game of prediction, one that rewards patience and attention to detail.