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.
Southeast of the Cape, the Pequod encounters the Goney, a bleached, rusted whaler resembling a skeleton. Her ragged crew stands silent in the hoops as the ships pass. Ahab attempts to hail the stranger to ask if they have seen the White Whale, but his trumpet falls into the sea and the rising wind swallows his voice. Seizing the moment, Ahab shouts to the homeward-bound Nantucket ship to redirect his future mail to the Pacific, effectively announcing his intention never to return. As the wakes cross, shoals of small fish that had swum peacefully alongside the Pequod suddenly dart away to the stranger. Ahab watches their flight with deep, helpless sadness. Ordering the helm up to continue the voyage, the narrator reflects on the irony of circumnavigation, which leads only back to the start, and the barren mazes of chasing a demon phantom.
Ahab avoided boarding the Albatross not merely because of the threatening weather, but because he refused to consort with any stranger who could not contribute information about the White Whale. This reluctance highlights the peculiar social customs of whaling vessels, known as a “Gam.” Unlike merchant ships, which often pass like haughty dandies without a word, or men-of-war that engage in stiff, formal bowings, whalers have profound reasons to socialize. They are long absent from home, starving for news, and eager to exchange letters and intelligence about cruising grounds. Even pirates and slave-traders, with their hurried or villainous interactions, lack the specific brotherhood found in whalemen, who share a common pursuit and mutually endured privations.
A Gam is defined as a social meeting of two Whaleships on a cruising-ground, where crews exchange visits by boats while the captains convene on one vessel and the chief mates on the other. The mechanics of this exchange are unique to the fishery. In other vessels, a captain is rowed in comfort, seated on a cushioned stern sheet with a tiller. However, a whale-boat possesses no seat and no tiller; it is a Spartan craft. Consequently, during a Gam, the visiting captain must stand erect in the rocking boat, pulled off to his host’s ship “like a pine tree.” This posture requires immense dignity and physical fortitude. Wedged between the steering oar at his back and the after-oar at his knees, the captain must maintain his balance solely by spreading his legs. He cannot steady himself with his hands without losing face, so he typically keeps them buried in his pockets for ballast, though in moments of violent squalls, even the proudest captain has been known to seize an oarsman’s hair to avoid toppling into the sea.
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