Land was created to provide a place for boats to visit.
There is nothing as relaxing as being out on the open sea, listening to the waves and the wind and the sails and voices downstairs yelling "HOW DO YOU FLUSH THESE TOILETS?"
The wilderness does not make you forget your normal life so much as it removes the distractions for proper remembering.
We may have all come on different ships, but we're in the same boat now.
Shells sink, dreams float. Life's good on our boat.
We must row in whatever boat we find ourselves in.
Whatever is stealing your peace and rocking your boat, what ever is taking your smile away, reach down, pick it up, and throw it overboard.
The pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts the sails.
A boat is safe in the harbor. But this is not the purpose of a boat.
The breeze of grace is always blowing on you. You have to open the sails and your boat will move forward.
Did you know you can't steer a boat that isn't moving? Just like a life.
Water in the boat is the ruin of the boat, but water under the boat is its support.
When you're on a boat, it is this tiny little island where you have to be completely self-sufficient.
Jolly boating weather, And a hay harvest breeze, Blade on the feather, Shade off the trees.
You have to be careful on the deck, because of the "hatches," which are holes placed around a sailboat at random to increase the insurance rates.
The sea hates a coward.
Being on a boat that's moving through the water, it's so clear. Everything falls into place in terms of what's important and what's not.
Row, row, row your boat. Gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.
Boats in the harbor are safe but that is not what they are meant for.
Fortune brings in some boats that are not steered.
At sea, I learned how little a person needs, not how much.
There is nothing - absolutely nothing - half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.
We are imprisoned in the realm of life, like a sailor on his tiny boat, on an infinite ocean.
Now then, Pooh," said Christopher Robin, "where's your boat?" "I ought to say," explained Pooh as they walked down to the shore of the island, "that it isn't just an ordinary sort of boat. Sometimes it's a Boat, and sometimes it's more of an Accident. It all depends." "Depends on what?" "On whether I'm on the top of it or underneath it.
O God, thy sea is so great and my boat is so small.
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