This image is of the clipper ship Sea Witch painted by Charles Vickery, the distinguished American artist of such scenes. I’ve long been an enthusiast of similar work by the English artist, Montague Dawson, but I came across this print at an antique show and fell in love with his portrayal of the ship, the sails, and the waves. It personifies John Masefield’s poem, Sea Fever. Masefield, the Poet Laureate of England from 1930 to 1967 actually spent his early years at sea on such ships and was well qualified to write of the sea.

I don’t remember when I first read Sea Fever; grammar school, perhaps, but it had an effect on me that has survived. This post is the result of coming across the poem again last summer. Where? Why, of course, at the shore.

I offer the poem as a narration against a background of surf sounds. I hope you enjoy it.


On this same subject I wrote about a stream of memories of my sea experiences in a 2012 post. I included the words of the poem, and the background music is Debussy’s Dialogue Between the Wind and the Sea from La Mer. Eight years later I find that the post has held up and is still, for me, a moving experience. Please take a look at it by clicking here.


Sea Fever by John Masefield

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way, where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

I am always moved by this poem as I am by work such as Debussy’s La Mer (The Sea).    While you’re reading this and looking at the images you can hear the third movement (Dialog of the Wind and the Sea) by turning up your volume and clicking on the arrow here.

It is his impressionistic style that appeals to me but it is also the images evoked of the sea, something with which I have had a long love affair.  (My Nordic genes?)    My late friend, psycho-analyst LeRoy Byerly, once observed that the sea reminded us of the sloshing waters of the womb.    Well, it could be but my own affinity for the waters dates from childhood on the beaches and along the Intra Coastal Waterway in a boathouse on pilings with my rowboat underneath it.  Also, having to watch all of the episodes of Victory at Sea many times in OCS probably had some effect as well.


In any event I have a bountiful stream of memories involving the seas and other waterways.  As a child, diving under the waters, pretending to be the comic book character, Submariner; walking the beaches in winter after school;  scampering dangerously from rock to rock on the jettys; putt-putting through the marshes after a night of fishing, with only a war surplus one-cell life jacket light as a running light.

As an adult it was watching the chairs slide across the deck in the wardroom while crossing a March, storm-tossed North Atlantic, and watching the long deck of the LST ripple with each wave through which we plowed.  It was  barely surviving a windy day’s broach and near capsizing of a Captain’s gig I was running while rounding the tip of Conanicut Island where the Narragansett opened to Long Island Sound’s chop.  It was standing on the bridge in deep night during a quieter Atlantic crossing and seeing another ship ghosting by in the distance, sharing the greatness and the depths and the loneliness of stars and sea.  It was standing on a Pacific shore as the sun sank into the mysterious Far East with Richard Rodgers’ Theme of the Fast Carriers spinning in my head, thinking about that war and my brother storming murderous beaches, and the great dramas and losses and sadness of that profound era.

It is my brother, Bill’s, poem defining experiences I have also felt.


It was being anchored in a bight along the Rideau Waterway in Canada, surrounded by rocky hillsides, seated with my family on the roof of our rented houseboat as night and a Canadian chill fell upon us and hearing the plaintive call of a loon.  It was being placidly anchored in some secluded gunk-hole of the Chesapeake Bay as twilight descended upon us amidst others at anchor; secure, sharing private peace from the hazards of life, the bay and the night… islands of humanity.   And, it has been struggling through six foot seas as we ran along the coast while the cat puked on the aft deck and Marty Lou wondered out loud why she had ever left the mountains.

It has been walking the docks of marinas after safely tying up at day’s end, hearing the sounds and smelling the smells of boats at rest.  It has been gazing over the froth-filled near-shore reefs at the distant mountains of St. Bart’s as the sun rose on our beloved Dawn Beach.  It has been gliding on a canal boat through a dark Alsatian mountain tunnel in lantern light with the sounds of a requiem mass being played.  Whose?  Too many years ago and too far away; I don’t remember.

It has been out on the sailing grounds, sun and spray in my face, watching the races and hearing the shhhhh of the hulls slicing through the water, the clicking of the cranked winches, and the occasional flapping of luffing sails.  It has been standing on the beach during a Nor’easter, physically understanding the overwhelming forces of the pounding waves and my own insignificance there.  And it has been watching the moon’s reflection and the brief sheen left on a receding wave.

Yes, I must go down to the seas again…….