Scientists know a great deal about the ocean, but they don't know everything.
They don't know, for instance, about the place at the very bottom — deeper than any submarine has gone, where the water is perfectly still and perfectly dark.
At the bottom of this place lies a great flat plain of the softest sand. And in this sand, every night, the ocean keeps its dreams.
Dreams of storms it has made. Dreams of ships it has held up. Dreams of creatures it has carried, warm and deep, through all the cold centuries.
The whale songs drift down there. The oldest ones — songs that no whale alive today knows how to sing.
When you dream about the ocean — about sinking slowly, peacefully, the light fading, the water growing warm and still — you are touching the edge of this place.
The ocean is dreaming about you too.
It has been dreaming about humans since the first one stood at the edge of the water and looked out and wondered.
Close your eyes. The water is warm. The sand is soft. You are perfectly, peacefully held.