Imagine you're in a cabin in a big ship. It's sturdy and out to sea, and you're looking out your porthole. If you were young, or if you felt unsafe, then the sea might scare you. When it got really whipped up, and churned, you might turn away, or close the shade (if you had one) until the churn was over and the sea was placid again.
But when you grow up, you're no longer afraid of the sea outside your cabin window. You it can't hurt you to look at. So you press your face up against the glass until all you see is sea and sky. And it's beautiful to look at—when it's still, it's beautiful, and when it's churned up into white-crested peaks, turning back on themselves, swirling into infinitesimal detail and dying away, it's beautiful.