I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
I don't know who named them swells. There's nothing swell about them. They should have named them awfuls.
I want a boat that drinks 6, eats 4, and sleeps 2.
Give a man a fish and feed him for a day. Give him a fishing lesson and he'll sit in a boat drinking beer every weekend.
I must go down to the sea again For the call of the running tide It's a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied.
To be truly challenging, a voyage, like a life, must rest on a firm foundation of financial unrest. Otherwise, you are doomed to a routine traverse, the kind known to yachtsmen who play with their boats at sea 'cruising' it is called. Voyaging belongs to seamen, and to the wanderers of the world who cannot, or will not, fit in. If you are contemplating a voyage and you have the means, abandon the venture until your fortunes change. Only then will you know what the sea is all about.
You do not ask a tame seagull why it needs to disappear from time to time toward the open sea. It goes, that's all.
The sure-thing boat never gets far from shore.
The ocean has always been a salve to my soul.
I keep sailing on in this middle passage. I am sailing into the wind and the dark. But I am doing my best to keep my boat steady and my sails full.
Bad cooking is responsible for more trouble at sea than all other things put together.
To the question, "When were your spirits at the lowest ebb?" the obvious answer seemed to be, "When the gin gave out."
Any damn fool can navigate the world sober. It takes a really good sailor to do it drunk.
Out of sight of land the sailor feels safe. It is the beach that worries him.
To young men contemplating a voyage I would say go.
The chance for mistakes is about equal to the number of crew squared.
There is little man has made that approaches anything in nature, but a sailing ship does. There is not much man has made that calls to all the best in him, but a sailing ship does.
I hate storms, but calms undermine my spirits.
A small craft in an ocean is, or should be, a benevolent dictatorship.
He who lets the sea lull him into a sense of security is in very grave danger.
Sailors, with their built in sense of order, service and discipline, should really be running the world.
Men in a ship are always looking up, and men ashore are usually looking down.
Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.
For the truth is that I already know as much about my fate as I need to know. The day will come when I will die. So the only matter of consequence before me is what I will do with my allotted time. I can remain on shore, paralyzed with fear, or I can raise my sails and dip and soar in the breeze.
There is nothing -- absolutely nothing -- half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats. In or out of 'em, it doesn't matter. Nothing seems really to matter, that's the charm of it. Whether you get away, or whether you don't; whether you arrive at your destination or whether you reach somewhere else, or whether you never get anywhere at all, you're always busy, and you never do anything in particular; and when you've done it there's always something else to do, and you can do it if you like, but you'd much better not.
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