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.
The long peninsula of Malacca stretches southeastward from Asia, forming a chain of islands—Sumatra, Java, Bally, Timor—that creates a vast natural rampart dividing the Indian Ocean from the oriental archipelagoes. This rampart is pierced by sally-ports, chief among them the Straits of Sunda. Unlike the fortified entrances to the Mediterranean, these straits demand no tribute of lowered sails—yet the Oriental seas exact their own toll. From shaded coves, Malay pirates have sallied forth since time out of mind, demanding tribute at spear-point.
With fair wind, the Pequod drew nigh. Ahab purposed to pass through into the Javan Sea, then cruise northward over waters frequented by the Sperm Whale, sweeping inshore by the Philippines to reach Japan for the great whaling season. Thus the circumnavigating Pequod would sweep almost all known Sperm Whale grounds before descending upon the Line in the Pacific, where Ahab counted upon giving battle to Moby Dick.
As the ship gained upon Java Head, lookouts were repeatedly hailed. The green cliffs loomed, cinnamon was snuffed in the air, yet not a single jet was descried. The ship had well nigh entered the straits when the cry rang from aloft, and a spectacle of singular magnificence saluted them.
Broad on both bows, forming a great semicircle embracing half the horizon, a continuous chain of whale-jets sparkled in the noon-day air. The thick curled bushes of white mist showed like the thousand cheerful chimneys of some dense metropolis. This vast fleet seemed hurrying forward through the straits, contracting their crescent wings, swimming on in one solid center—like marching armies approaching an unfriendly defile, eager to place that perilous passage in their rear.
The Pequod crowded sail after them, harpooners cheering from their suspended boats. If the wind held, the vast host would deploy into the Oriental seas to witness many captures. And who could tell whether Moby Dick himself might not be swimming in that congregated caravan? So with stun-sail piled on stun-sail they sailed—when Tashtego’s voice directed attention to something in their wake.
Corresponding to the crescent in their van, another appeared in their rear. Ahab revolved in his pivot-hole, crying aloft to wet the sails: Malays, after them! The rascally Asiatics now pursued in hot chase. Ahab paced the deck; in his forward turn beholding the monsters he chased, in the after one the bloodthirsty pirates chasing him. Through that gate lay the route to his vengeance, and through that same gate he was now both chasing and being chased to his deadly end.
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