Tomorrow we take to the mighty sea.

Many, many steeples would have to be stacked one on top of another to reach from the bottom to the surface of the sea. It is down there that the sea folk live.

I am ill every time it blows hard, and nothing but my enthusiastic love for the profession keeps me one hour at sea.

He who travels by sea is nothing but a worm on a piece of wood, a trifle in the midst of a powerful creation. The waters play about with him at will, and no one but God can help him.

Seamen are the nearest to death and the furthest from God.

We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea—whether it is to sail or to watch it—we are going back whence we came.

Anyone can hold the helm when the sea is calm.

But look, our seas are what we make of them, full of fish or not, opaque or transparent, red or black, high or smooth, narrow or bankless—and we are ourselves sea, sand, coral, seaweed, beaches, tides, swimmers, children, waves.

You never enjoy the world aright, till the sea itself floweth in your veins, till you are clothed with the heavens, and crowned with the stars.

Ships at a distance have every man’s wish on board.

Seafarers go to sleep in the evening not knowing whether they will find themselves at the bottom of the sea the next morning.

Seaward ho! Hang the treasure! It’s the glory of the sea that has turned my head.

The sole business of a seaman onshore who has to go to sea again is to take as much pleasure as he can.