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

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.

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

I wish to have no connection with any ship that does not sail fast, for I intend to go in harm’s way.

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

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.

The breaking of a wave cannot explain the whole sea.

He who commands the sea has command of everything.

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.

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

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.

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.

He that commands the sea is at great liberty and may take as much and as little of the war as he will.