The Mediterranean has the colors of a mackerel, changeable I mean. You don’t always know if it is green or violet—you can’t even say it’s blue, because the next moment the changing light has taken on a tinge of pink or gray.

Of all objects that I have ever seen, there is none which affects my imagination so much as the sea or ocean. A troubled ocean, to a man who sails upon it, is, I think, the biggest object that he can see in motion, and consequently gives his imagination one of the highest kinds of pleasure that can arise from greatness.

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.

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.

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

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

I’ve been bathing in the poem / Of star-infused and milky sea / Devouring the azure greens.

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

And to our age’s drowsy blood / Still shouts the inspiring sea.

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

The winds and the waves are always on the side of the ablest navigators.

Why is a ship under sail more poetical than a hog in a high wind? The hog is all nature, the ship is all art.

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