Quotes About Sailor

A sailor is not defined as much by how many seas he has sailed than by how many storms he has overcome.

peripatetic, globe-roaming mariner Captain James

He was his own best audience; a man couldn't be a sailor and a leader of men all his life without being quite self-contained.

O to have life henceforth a poem of new joys! To dance, clap hands, exult, shout, skip, leap, roll on, float on! To be a sailor of the world bound for all ports, A ship itself, (see indeed these sails I spread to the sun and air,) A swift and swelling ship full of rich words, full of joys.

The rain washed away my pitcher's mound... I'm a pitcher without a mound... I'm a lost soul... I'm like a politician out of office." "Or a sailor without an ocean..." "Or a boy without a girl...

Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea, And the hunter home from the hill.

Me boat's on the slipway, and I don't want Old Bill clambering all over it. I'll be up for the funeral, see you then.' Joe was examining the tightly packed envelopes in the bag. 'Get rid of them quick, Yos,' he warned. With that, he left, that stocky little loyal sailor who had come to the end of his life of crime. At midnight after the bar had closed, the rest of the boys gathered in the office. That red-headed

For a sailor used to travelling light and looking after himself, many aspects of life as a royal came as an unpleasant shock to Prince Philip.

My book 'Ali Pasha' tells the true story of a young sailor Henry Friston, who, in the hell-fire of battle, forms an unusual friendship.

I like photography and writing and travel, so I have a lot of cerebral occupations. I am going to become a sailor and do a world tour on my yacht if I don't get any more work.

What do you want to be a sailor for? There are greater storms in politics than you will ever find at sea. Piracy, broadsides, blood on the decks. You will find them all in politics.

I'm much too much the popular pet ever since I sang 'Every Nice Girl Loves A Sailor' at the village concert last year. I had them rolling in the aisles. Three encores, and so many bows that I got a crick in the back. Spare me the tale of your excesses, I said distantly. I wore a sailor suit. Please, I said, revolted.

Inclined in the afternoons I throw my sad nets to your ocean eyes. There it strains and blazes in the highest bonfire, my loneliness, flailing arms like a shipwrecked sailor. I make red signals over your eyes, absent, which swell like the sea at the shore of a lighthouse.

The Ice Master was too injured and too exhausted to crawl any farther. Let whatever was going to happen to him happen now and may a Sailor's God fuck to Hell this fucking thing that was going to eat him.

A sailor? A common sailor? A common ordinary seaman bests the great Inigo Montoya with the sword? In-con-ceiv-a-ble. He must be the Dread Pirate Roberts. Otherwise it makes no sense.

There is a finely translated epigram in the greek anthology which admirably expresses this state of mind, this acceptance of loss as unatoned for, even tho the lost element might be one's self: 'A shipwrecked sailor, buried on this coast, bids you set sail. Full many a gallant bark, when we were lost, weathered the gal.

think, again, of my mother opening her front door to a Swedish sailor, the stuff of fairy tales: Rapunzel letting down her hair, Cinderella sliding her foot into the glass slipper, Sleeping Beauty awaiting a kiss. All were given one chance to step into a happily ever after—or at least it must've seemed that way. But was it the prince who attracted them, or merely the opportunity for escape?

in the winter of 1902 a dysentery epidemic brought by a sailor on the whaling ship Active killed 51 out of the 56 Sadlermiut Eskimos, a very isolated band of people living on Southampton Island in the Canadian Arctic.

I am fading away. Slowly but surely. Like the sailor who watches his home shore gradually disappear, I watch my past recede. My old life still burns within me, but more and more of it is reduced to the ashes of memory.

There is the sailor sea and the commercial sea, the oil-well sea and the fishy sea. The sea that tests the land through sublunary power. The rise and fall of the harbour sea and the sea that exists to make maps look prettier. But the functional sea is not the final sea. There is that other sea simply itself.

A sailor, who may be absent for years, throws impossible strains on his wife. If she is a woman of any degree of temperament at all there is of course the question of chastity; and in either case there is that of command or perhaps I should say of decision.

aboard ship, and then hard tack, salt-horse

He who loves practice without theory is like the sailor who boards ship without a rudder and compass and never knows where he may cast.

Home is the sailor, home from the sea, And the hunter home from the hill.