Hands gripping the lighthouse railing, a man peers out over a sea growing restless as an evening storm approaches. The waves are jagged and dark, and while they'd do little more than hungrily lap at the sides of the boats of old and wizened captains, the danger they might pose to a young fool with a raft keeps the man's eyes trained. The sea air, alive with electricity, feels almost a part of him. The water, the salt, the fresh life of the ocean, the almost sweet warmth of the lighthouse lamp, he wears them like cologne. And so too may you with this aquatic fragrance named for such a man as him: the watchman.
