There is a dark magic in the myths of the ocean, a churning fury that seems to validate Jungs lunatic concepts of a universal mythological subconscious. A thrashing bloody madness of creative potential; sex and blood explored by cultures so isolated and disparate it’s hard not to wonder.  In the Aegean sea, Saturn castrating his father and throwing the remnants into the frothing waves to bring forth Venus, god of love upon the shore. Namakaokahai the Hawaiian ocean spirit eternally battling her sister Pele over a shared lover where ocean meets volcanic eruption. In Tasmania the fisherman Maywerick is killed and he and his wife transformed into scale fish after jealous spirits fight for the mans attention. These stories we tell ourselves say more about the teller than the audience, a way of shaping the amorphous terror of deep black water into a romantic spat; early and ongoing attempts at describing a mystery that really isn’t any of our business.