Writing something to say at a sea ceremony is one of the tasks families most often underestimate. The open water creates both more freedom and more demand than a podium. What you write on shore may not be what comes out when you're standing on deck. That's not a problem — it's part of what the ceremony makes possible.
Preparing written remarks — even if you depart from them entirely — is worth doing. The act of writing forces a clarity of thought that grief resists. What do you most want said? What would the person have wanted said? What do the people aboard need to hear? Writing it down answers those questions, even if the answers change by the time you're at sea.
Short, specific, concrete. Stories are better than eulogies. One particular memory, told fully, lands harder than a summary of a life. "She made this sound when she laughed" stays with people. "She was a devoted mother and grandmother" does not. On the water, with wind and motion and the sound of the ocean, specific language cuts through where general language dissipates.
Poetry and scripture both carry well on water. If there is a passage that mattered to your person, it belongs in the ceremony. If no particular text comes to mind, nothing is required. The release itself is an act of language.
Offer the floor to other family members and friends, but make clear in advance that there is no obligation to speak. "You're welcome to share something if you feel moved — there's no expectation" releases people to participate authentically. Forcing someone to speak produces remarks both speaker and listener wish had not been given.
On a vessel at sea, wind, motion, and emotion are all working against you. Print your remarks in a large enough font to read at a glance. Laminated or in a clear folder helps in spray. Prepare for what you'll do if you cannot finish speaking — hand your notes to someone else who can read them for you. This happens, and there is no shame in it.