When he was young, his mother would often bathe him in a wooden bucket filled with the leftover water from the previous occupants’ baths. But he loved his bath times, and the memory of splashing happily and making waves of bubbles in the water is a fond one; one that he shares with his ageing mother.
He’s reminded of that very scene now, as he’s a sailor out at sea, except the sea is the biggest bath he’s ever been in and the ‘wooden bucket’ stays in between him and the water.
The bucket rolls violently in the storm-whipped waves, and he wonders about the hands that stir the waters. The only thing he can do is to pray to whoever’s on the other side of the hands; whoever’s on the other side of the waters looking down and treating the earth as his own personal bucket.
By being more fragile than the wooden bucket they’re in, he’s certain they’ll all be rocked to an early grave. So he allows himself to be buried by the sunless, starless skies, and waits for the lid of a coffin to come hammering down.