The sea?
He had never been on it but once, and then only in a rowboat.

A good sailor?
Perhaps.

Chicken and barley broths at eleven; the captain's table in the dining-saloon, breakfast, luncheon and dinner; cabin housekeeper and luggage man at the ports; and always a natty, stiffly starched jacket with a metal number; and "Yes, sir!" and "No, sir!" and "Thank you, sir!" his official vocabulary.

Fine job for a poet! It was all in the game he was going to play with fate.

A chap who could sell flamingo ties to gentlemen with purple noses, and shirts with attached cuffs to coal-porters ought not to worry over such a simple employment as cabin-steward on board an ocean liner.
Early the next morning they left port, with only a few first-class passengers.