Call me Ishmael. Years ago, finding myself poor and aimless on land, I decided to sail and view the watery world. This is my method for curing melancholy and regulating my blood. Whenever my mouth grows grim, or my soul feels like a damp, drizzly November, I know it is time to leave. The urge becomes undeniable when I pause before coffin before warehouses, trail behind funerals, or feel a manic impulse to knock hats off in the street. Going to sea is my alternative to suicide. While Cato died on his sword with a flourish, I quietly board a ship. This impulse is not unique; almost all men feel a magnetic pull toward the ocean.
Call me Ishmael. Years ago, finding myself poor and aimless on land, I decided to sail and view the watery world. This is my method for curing melancholy and regulating my blood. Whenever my mouth grows grim, or my soul feels like a damp, drizzly November, I know it is time to leave. The urge becomes undeniable when I pause before coffin before warehouses, trail behind funerals, or feel a manic impulse to knock hats off in the street. Going to sea is my alternative to suicide. While Cato died on his sword with a flourish, I quietly board a ship. This impulse is not unique; almost all men feel a magnetic pull toward the ocean.
Consider Manhattan, an island ringed by wharves. On dreamy afternoons, thousands of men stand fixed in ocean trances like silent sentinels. Though confined all week in plaster offices, they drift toward the docks, pressing as close to the water as possible without falling in. This attraction is universal. Even in the countryside, a lost dreamer will inevitably lead you to water if it exists nearby. Thought and fluid are eternally linked. The myth of Narcissus, who drowned chasing his reflection, explains this: we seek the elusive, intangible essence of life found in rivers and seas.
I never voyage as a passenger, since I lack the funds, nor as an officer, for I despise the burden of command. I ship out as a common sailor before the mast. The work is hard and the orders constant, which stings my pride, yet I accept it. Who is not a servant in some grand sense? Furthermore, I insist on being paid for my trouble, a satisfaction far superior to spending money. I also crave the pure air of the forecastle, knowing the officers breathe only what filters down to them.
Why I chose a whaling voyage is a mystery only the Fates can fully explain. It seems to be a scripted interlude in the grand drama of Providence, sandwiched between elections and wars. My primary motive was the whale itself. Such a mysterious monster roused my curiosity, as did the remote, dangerous seas he inhabits. I am tormented by a craving for the distant. I love navigating forbidden waters and landing on savage shores. The flood-gates of the wonder-world opened, and into my soul swam endless processions of whales, dominated by one massive, hooded shape rising like a snowy mountain in the air.
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