THE OCEAN In 2000, I was travelling along the northern coast of Portugal when I saw a road sign: Finisterra. A mythical name. The place where the land ends. The lighthouse and its viewing platform were crowded with cheerful tourists taking photographs against the blue-grey backdrop of the Atlantic. It was a beautiful spring day, and the view from this high vantage point was nothing short of majestic. I stood there, stunned. In Finland, I had grown accustomed to the Baltic Sea, its horizon broken by countless islands. Here there was only vastness. No land in sight. If I were to set off west from this point, I would eventually reach the Americas. I lifted my Rolleiflex, aligned the horizon with the fine lines of the viewfinder, and released the shutter. More than twenty years have passed since then. I have photographed horizons from high vantage points in Australia, Italy and Spain—hundreds upon hundreds of them. First with my Rolleiflex, later with a digital camera. At first, I was captivated by the ocean's immensity and by the promise of whatever might lie beyond the horizon. A new world, perhaps. A better one. Over the years, however, something changed. I began to feel the weight of the water, the clouds resting upon it, the sun rising from it and sinking back into it. Sometimes perfectly still, sometimes violently restless—never the same, always the same. Standing there in silence, I realised there was absolutely nothing I could control. That thought fills me with a profound sense of calm and continuity. All life on Earth emerged from the dark depths of the oceans. They were here long before us, and they will remain long after we are gone. I find that deeply reassuring.