The life of a sailor is very unhealthy.

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

In all the ancient states and empires, those who had the shipping, had the wealth.

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.

As to the sea itself, love it you cannot. Why should you? I will never believe again the sea was ever loved by anyone whose life was married to it. It is the creation of omnipotence, which is not of humankind and understandable, and so the springs of its behavior are hidden.

Ashore it’s wine, women, and song; aboard it’s rum, bum, and concertina.

The sea yields action to the body, meditation to the mind, the world to the world, all parts thereof to each part, by this art of arts—navigation.

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

The sea receives us in a proper way only when we are without clothes.

A fair complexion is unbecoming to a sailor: he ought to be swarthy from the waters of the sea and the rays of the sun.

We are as near to heaven by sea as by land!

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

Ocean. A body of water occupying about two-thirds of a world made for man—who has no gills.