Liber Neptuni - Chapter 2

Verses

The sea is not your mother. Mothers usually object when you drown.

I have crossed black water under six flags, and every flag became a rag when the storm began.

Men call Neptune king because admitting the weather has no manager makes them nervous.

Tie the rope twice. Pray once if you must. The rope has the better record.

A calm horizon is only a storm taking off its boots in the next room.

The youngest sailor asked what the abyss wanted. I told him: nothing. That is why it is dangerous.

We carried a blue cat aboard at Triton Station. She slept through the alarms and woke for the fish. I trusted her theology.

Every captain becomes a mystic after enough instruments fail, and an engineer again when the engines restart.

Do not confuse surrender with wisdom. A sinking man also surrenders.

Poseidon may shake the earth; unpaid maintenance shakes more ships.

I have seen men survive waves taller than houses and then lose three wages to a woman who read shells in a cup.

Fog is honest about one thing: it tells you that you cannot see.

The liar is worse, for he paints a lighthouse where there is only rock.

If the gods live below us, let them pay harbor fees like everyone else.

Still, when the stars vanish and the deck becomes the whole universe, I understand why sailors invented prayer.

At dawn the ocean looks innocent again. This is its oldest trick.

Write this on the mast: admire the deep, but keep your boots on something that floats.