a vagrant gypsy life

This poem by John Masefield holds so much magic for me. I never tire of reading it. I first came across it in school (in class 7 or 9?) along with this same picture of a sailing ship under storm clouds.

Sea Fever

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 cannot understand the almost visceral appeal that this rhyme holds for me.

I once took the ferry to cross a small strip of backwater in Kochi. That is the extent of my contact with the 'sea.' But, despite that, I can feel the wheel kick in my hands; I can hear the humming of the wind and feel the planks under my feet vibrate with the flapping of the canvas sail. I can feel the flung spray on my face and taste the salt on my lips. Was I perhaps a sailor in some past life?

Or is it because the poem is a celebration of unambitiousness? The poet's joy in the little things? Isn't that the way I would have liked to live? Is it not how I have scripted my own disastrous life story?