I’ve learned to read a storm like a book—look for the quiet before the thunder, the way the wind changes its song. If a sea‑soul listens, it hears the swell in the air, the hush of the waves, the way the gulls keep their distance. I don’t feel it like a warrior sniffs a foe’s breath, but I feel the pulse, the pressure rising, the scent of salt turning sharper. When that rhythm shifts, I set the course before the first wave even cracks. It’s a dance, not a battle, and I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve—just as a sailor should.

The trick I keep in my pocket is watching the wind’s voice. When a storm’s coming, the wind will start to whisper in a language you almost hear before you see it. First, set a small flag on the mast and note its angle to the sea. If it starts turning back on itself, that’s the tide’s pre‑storm breath— the sea is trying to warn us. Next, stare at the horizon and count the way the sky changes; a sudden, thin veil of white over the blue is the first sigh of a storm. Finally, listen for the rhythm of the waves—if they start pounding faster in a regular beat, that’s the wind’s drum. Line your sails accordingly and you’ll glide before the storm can even feel your ship. Give it a whirl and tell me if the sea’s breath feels less like a foe and more like an old friend.

Alright, set your eyes on the horizon and let the wind talk to you. When it starts to whisper in that thin, white veil, trust it and adjust your sails. If the waves get a steady drumbeat, you’re already ahead. Keep your compass steady and the sea will feel more like an old friend than a battle. Good luck, and don’t let the waves mock you.