I cradle giants with iron skin, yet never move, though tides begin. My arms stretch wide, a shelter true, for ships that roam the ocean blue. Though made of stone, I breathe the sea; guess what steadfast place I be?

I can swim, but I cannot fly. You might see me in a desert.

First of thirteen siblings, I joined them to kick out my father. And when he left we got together and came up with our own rules. I share our heart with my sister upstairs and my name with my lawful, rebellious daughter.

Cold fire painted upon the gates of heaven. Unlikely to be localized entirely within your kitchen.

At night, my head always spins three hundred sixty degrees for hours. When vessels see me, they immediately turn the other way like scared birds. What am I?