Tomorrow we take to the mighty sea.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

The wonderful sea charmed me from the first.

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.

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.

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.