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

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 life of a sailor is very unhealthy.

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

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.

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

The power which the sea requires in the sailor makes a man of him very fast, and the change of shores and population clears his head of much nonsense of his wigwam.

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

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

Never trust her at any time when the calm sea shows her false alluring smile.

The breaking of a wave cannot explain the whole sea.

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

Anyone can hold the helm when the sea is calm.