Bryan W. Procter A wet sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast. And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While like the eagle free Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee. Give me a spirit that on this life's rough sea Loves t'have his sails filled with a lusty wind, Even till his sail-yards tremble, his masts crack, And his rapt ship run on her side so low That she drinks water, and her keel plows air. In or out of 'em, it doesn't matter. There is nothing more enticing, disenchanting, and enslaving than the life at sea.
Any fool can carry on but a wise man knows how to shorten sail in time.
The sea never changes and its works, for all the talk of men, are wrapped in mystery. Yoke on the further billows . . . Herman Melville Were this world an endless pain, and by sailing eastward we could forever reach new distances, and discover sights more sweet and strange than any Cyclades or Islands of King Solomon, then there were promise in the voyage. The sea is mother-death and she is a mighty female, the one who wins, the one who sucks us all up. You take my meaning.