Marine Transportation Quotes

I could imagine that boats sailing in harbors will only use electric engines. And then once they are out in the water they will use diesel.

The oceans are a way of life. We fish; we sail; we have a robust marine economy.

The sea and wind can at the same time convey my neighbour's vessel and my own.

My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea.

We see the sea as this place of leisure and this place, you know, a blue patch on the map to fly over because we all go by plane these days, mostly. And we don't really see it as a place of industry anymore.

There's not a ship that sails the ocean, But every climate, every soil, Must bring its tribute, great or small, And help to build the wooden wall!

Oh swiftly glides the bonnie boat, Just parted from the shore, And to the fisher's chorus-note Soft moves the dipping oar.

We decide to start with the best-known sight of all, the one that, more than any other, exemplifies what the Big Apple is all about: the Islip Garbage Barge.

When a man is part of his canoe, he is part of all that canoes have ever known.

Wooden ships are a hippie dream, capsized in excess if you know what I mean.

Light boats sail swift, though greater hulks draw deep.

Seaplanes are like the taxis of the Pacific Northwest.

I'm trying to move an aircraft carrier here, I'm not just steering the speedboat.

There was a great difference in boats, of course. For a long time I was on a boat that was so slow we used to forget what year it was we left port in.

Lie bills and calculations much perplexed, With steam-boats, frigates, and machinery quaint Traced over them in blue and yellow paint.

There is no ship now that can bear me hence

The only reason to have a 300-foot-long boat is because they're bigger than 200-foot-long boats.

I wanted to create a small town underwater where the characters were more like us than like fish. They have fire. They take walks. They drive. They have pets and holidays.

When its errands are noble and adequate, a steamboat bridging the Atlantic between Old and New England, and arriving at its ports with the punctuality of a planet, is a step of man into harmony with nature.

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, Yet she sailed softly too: Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze - On me alone it blew.