Ah, the old tide tables, those inked scrolls that let a crew know when the sea would whisper or roar. I remember the first mate on the *Sea‑Gazer*—he’d stare at the charts like a man in love with a map. He’d tie a knot, set a line to the nearest star, and read the swell as if it were a hymn. One night, a squall blew in from the north, the wind was a beast, and the stars went missing behind a curtain of clouds. The tide told him the waters were low, so the ship’s hull would barely kiss the ocean floor. He shouted orders, the crew scrambled, and when the storm finally hit, the ship rode the waves like a boy on a giant tide‑pup. When the skies cleared, the stars returned, and the tide had given them a safe passage. Those first sailors, reading waves and stars together, learned that the sea and the heavens were one vast storyteller. Those charts still guide us, but the true tide is in the crew’s trust and the wind’s song.