I always think of my childhood when I look at this Winslow Homer painting, "The Gulf Stream":
I first found it in a book of art that my mom and dad had around the house. It disturbed me so much that I went to my mom (I was around eight years old at the time) to ask what was going to happen to the man. I remember that my mom gave me a reassuring answer and pointed out that there was a large ship on the horizon that would likely find and help him. But of course I saw that there was a storm and what looked like a waterspout much closer than the ship. And those sharks didn't look like they were going to go away. Could they bite through his boat? I never asked my dad about it. I could just envision him saying, "Yeah those sharks get that guy. They're all capitalist sharks."
Like most people I tried to find some comfort in the details when I'd examine the painting. The fellow on the boat doesn't look too terribly concerned. Was he resting? Did he have reason to figure he'd get to shore? He had sugar cane on board, so he wasn't going to starve or die of thirst. (I'd eaten my share of sugar cane when I was a kid.) I came up with all kinds of scenarios for why things would end up okay for the man in that little boat.
But, damn, that painting sure did concern me.