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.

I never even saw the use of the sea. Many a sad heart has it caused, and many a sick stomach has it occasioned! The boldest sailor climbs on board with a heavy soul and leaps on land with a light spirit.

All streams run to the sea, but the sea is not full.

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

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

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.

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

Alone, alone, all, all alone, / Alone on a wide, wide sea!

The breaking of a wave cannot explain the whole sea.

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.

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

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 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.