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.
But the reckless crew troubled little with such thoughts. Steadily dropping the pirates astern, the Pequod shot by Cockatoo Point and emerged upon broad waters. The harpooners grieved more that the whales had been gaining than rejoiced that the ship had gained upon the Malays. Still driving on, the whales seemed abating their speed; the wind died, and word passed to spring to the boats.
The herd rallied into close ranks, their spouts like flashing lines of stacked bayonets, moving with redoubled velocity. After several hours’ pulling, the crew was almost disposed to renounce the chase when a general commotion gave token that the whales were now gallied—paralyzed with panic. The compact columns broke up in measureless rout; like mad elephants, they swam hither and thither in vast irregular circles. Some floated paralyzed like water-logged ships.
The boats separated, each making for some lone whale on the outskirts. Queequeg’s harpoon was flung; the stricken fish steered straight for the heart of the herd. As the swift monster drags you deeper into the frantic shoal, you bid adieu to circumspect life and exist only in delirious throb. Queequeg steered manfully, sheering off monsters, while Starbuck stood in the bows pricking whales from their path, and oarsmen shouted at great dromedaries that rose threatening to swamp them.
Druggs were darted—wooden squares that fettered whales with sidelong resistance. But the third caught under a seat and tore it away, letting in the sea. They stuffed shirts to stop the leaks. As they advanced, their whale’s way diminished; the disorders waned. The harpoon drew out, and they glided between two whales into the innermost heart of the shoal—as if from some mountain torrent they had slid into a serene valley lake.
Here the storms in the roaring glens between outermost whales were heard but not felt. The sea presented that smooth satin-like surface called a sleek. They were in that enchanted calm which lurks at the heart of every commotion. Successive pods swam round and round like multiplied spans of horses in a ring. No chance of escape was afforded; they must watch for a breach in the living wall that hemmed them in. Small tame cows and calves visited the boat, snuffling round the gunwales like household dogs. Queequeg patted their foreheads; Starbuck scratched their backs with his lance.
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