He scoffs at the seafoam struggling fruitlessly to wet his toes. Pathetic.
It's days like these that make Sasuke a little less like a stone statue and a little more like warm flesh and blood (but just a little). The sea mocks him, swelling up and slamming against the shore only to then pull back, withdraw, abandon. And for that, he hates it.
He hates the way it's inconsistent – metre-high crests one day, baby waves another. He hates the way its rhythm never breaks. He hates the way other people love it – the hell's so great about it? It kills people: draws them in and refuses to spit them back out. Drowns them.
It may look pretty, but it takes life and crushes it. Sasuke can relate to that.