“I am willing to remain and play the man’s game if there are not enough boats for more than the women and children.”

Tell my wife I played the game straight out and to the end. No woman shall be left aboard this ship because Ben Guggenheim is a coward.

We’ve dressed up in our best and are prepared to go down like gentlemen.

I’m one-hundred-fifty miles off Cape Horn, both autopilots are broken, and my boat is drifting toward one of the nastiest chunks of ocean on the face of the earth.

But none of that kept me from picturing what a tsunami might look like if it did rise up and roar toward my little boat like some watery blue version of the Great Wall of China.

If Wild Eyes reached those islands, she wouldn’t run aground, keel in the sand. She would be smashed into pieces.

Don’t come to me with a flimsy boat and expect my seas to be calm.

I don’t travel by airplane. I mean that because when my wife, my kids and I travel on trains or boats, we meet a lot of people and we talk to them.

O’er Ocean, with a thousand masts, sails forth the stripling bold- One boat, hard rescued from the deep, draws into port the old!

We are all in the same boat, in a stormy sea, and we owe each other a terrible loyalty.

We’re all in the same boat, and we’re all seasick.