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.
Beyond psychology, practical necessity demands attention. Sailors may embrace knight-errantry for a season, but their common appetites require feeding. Without prospect of oil and wages, the same men who cheered Ahab’s purpose would turn against him. And having declared his private vendetta before the ship’s proper business, Ahab has laid himself open to charges of usurpation—his crew could lawfully strip him of command.
These calculations drive him to a necessary performance. He must play the whaling captain still, hailing the mast-heads, demanding sharp lookouts for any spout, even a porpoise. The hunt for Moby Dick proceeds, but masked by the ordinary commerce of the sea. His vigilance, however calculated, soon brings reward.
On a cloudy, sultry afternoon, the rhythmic weaving of a sword-mat by Ishmael and Queequeg induces a metaphysical trance. As the marline passes between the warp, Ishmael perceives the loom as Time, the fixed threads as Necessity, and his own hand as the shuttle of Free Will. He observes that Queequeg’s heavy sword strikes the woof with varying intensity, symbolizing Chance, which interacts with necessity and will to shape the final fabric of destiny. This philosophical reverie is violently shattered by Tashtego’s unearthly cry from the cross-trees, announcing a school of sperm whales on the lee-beam. The ship erupts into commotion; Ahab demands the exact time, and the crew prepares to lower the boats, anticipating the whales will surface directly ahead. However, just as the eager crews stand poised over the gunwales, ready to launch, a sudden exclamation draws every eye from the sea. Ahab is now surrounded by five dusky phantoms that seem to have materialized out of the air.
The lowering begins in thunder and revelation. As the crew springs to the boats, figures materialize from the shadows—strangers who had lain hidden in the hold since before the Pequod sailed. At their head stands Fedallah, a tall Parsee whose dark face bears a single protruding white tooth, his head wrapped in a white turban that crowns his funereal black garments. Behind him wait five men of tiger-yellow complexion, sailors from the Manillas whose reputation for cunning has earned them dark whispers among white mariners. These are Ahab’s secret crew, stowed away and now revealed at the critical instant. The ship’s company stares in superstitious amazement, but Ahab’s command cuts through their wonder. The boats drop into the sea, and the sailors leap down the rolling sides with the dexterity of their calling.
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