The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

acks of sea lions moved northeast and northwest,
limitless schools of waves aloof from the shore. The
flood was held under strict control by the distant
moon.
Mackerel clouds half-covered the sky, their upper
line quietly severing the sun.
Two fishing boats were putting out to sea. There
was a cargo boat farther out. The wind was stronger.
A fishing boat came in from the west, as if to signal
the opening of a ceremony. It was a poor little boat,
and yet, wheelless and legless, it advanced with a
proud grace as if sweeping in full-skirted.
By three the mackerel clouds were thinner. On the
southern sky clouds fanned out like the tail of a white
turtle-dove to throw a deep shadow over the sea.
The sea: a nameless sea, the Mediterranean, the
Japan Sea, the Bay of Suruga here before him; a rich,
nameless, absolute anarchy, caught after a great
struggle as something called “sea,” in fact rejecting a
name.
As the sky clouded over, the sea fell into sulky
contemplation, studded with fine nightingale-colored
points. It bristled with wave-thorns, like a rose branch.
In the thorns themselves was evidence of a smooth
becoming. The thorns of the sea were smooth.
Three ten. There were no ships in sight.